


The Breach of Promise Affair

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: In order to bring Dr. Earnest Latner into protective custody, Illya must sever the engagement of the eminent scientist's daughter. The inclusion of Harry Beldon and a rather distracting Section III agent make a complicated mission even more challenging.





	1. Chapter 1

Early Summer 1966

Illya put on his tinted glasses, both to dampen the room’s opulence and to veil his stupefied reaction. From floor to ceiling, motifs from China, Japan, and India mingled with abandon. Gilded dragons ran riot about the space, shouldering the tables, undulating over the chairs, and pursuing each other across the papered walls. The décor was obtrusive, decadent, and audacious; yet, like the office’s occupant, it was surprisingly successful.

Harry Beldon tossed his coat onto a fretwork rack and took up a voluminous crimson choga edged in gold embroidery. As he slipped on the robe, he looked over his office like a maharajah surveying his state. “Well, Illya, what do you think of my changes?”

“They suit you.”

Beldon gave a bark of laughter. That and his blustering manner of speech were just as Illya remembered them. “The first thing I did upon becoming UNCLE Northeast was to have each of my offices redecorated. A man should be surrounded by beauty, particularly in our line of work.”

He crossed to an imposing sideboard. An empty wine bottle stood there, the contents airing in a crystal decanter. Beldon looked at the claret and thrust his jaw forward until his lower lip protruded. His narrow eyes darted briefly to the rear of the office.

Illya observed his former station chief and pondered the expressions reflected in the sideboard’s mirror. Harry Beldon, head of Administration and Operations for the entire Northeast sector. The mind boggled. Yet there was a feeling of inevitability about it as well. Beldon had always been as ambitious as he was audacious, and he had higher peaks still to climb. A vision arose in his mind of Waverly’s office transformed into the hunting lodge of an American robber baron. He suppressed a shudder.

“Wine?” Beldon asked as he poured a glass. “Or perhaps vodka?”

“Neither, thank you.”

To his right, a bay of windows surrounded a black lacquered desk. Illya stepped aside to clear the path, then watched as Beldon moved instead to a low wooden daybed, broad and deep, at the center of the room. He lay across it on his side, the crimson choga filling the space around him.

“Take a seat.”

Illya considered the options with a dubious eye and chose a chair of upholstered rosewood. Carved chi dragons snarled beneath his arms.

Beldon performed a complicated ritual with the wine, swirling and sniffing, then drank half the glass in one swallow. “Speaking of beauty, I am informed that Waverly has promoted a woman to Section II. I was surprised that this was not discussed at the last Conference.” He peered at Illya over the gilded rim. “Why is she not with you for this affair?”

“Miss Dancer is on another assignment.”

“Too bad. I looked forward to meeting her.”

“And I would like to meet your agent,” Illya said in mounting impatience, “as soon as possible.”

“You will, you will. She can update us both on her progress.”

“Progress? I have not yet briefed her.”

“I took care of that. ‘Girl meets boy, girl steals boy.’ A mere trifle. Hardly necessary for you to travel all this way.”

“Convincing Dr. Latner to come into UNCLE’s protective custody is more than a trifle. His daughter’s engagement to this boy is the only thing preventing it.”

“If I know my agent, it will not be an impediment for much longer.” A tray that once held opium paraphernalia sat at his elbow, now inset with a familiar panel. He pressed a button and said, “The Pemberley profile, please.”

Within moments, a secretary entered with a folder. At Beldon’s nod, she handed it to Illya.

He found a single sheet of cardstock inside. The young woman in the small personnel photo had an agreeable face with no claims to great beauty. “She looks…competent,” Illya said.

“That picture does not do her justice. A gorgeous creature. And a woman of the world.”

Illya was familiar with Beldon’s appetites. One took him with his pets and peccadillos or did not take him at all. Illya wondered which he was being saddled with. He skimmed Miss Pemberley’s profile, noting several languages, meager compared to April’s twelve, and a list of postings around the globe. New Delhi, Hong Kong, Rio, Paris, London. “She does not remain in one office for very long.”

“A gypsy.” Beldon raised his glass as if in toast.

“Or a hot potato.”

“Not at all. I understand wanderlust. I simply could not function like Alexander Waverly, always in the same office. Without variety, the spirit stagnates.”

Illya flipped the page over. “Few commendations. And one official reprimand.”

“Only one? Filed by whom?”

“Gerald Strothers.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Farenti was a fool to assign them to the same affair, but _nil nisi bonum_. I advised Strothers against the complaint at the time.”

“Which was?”

“Striking a senior agent.”

“And had she?”

“Most assuredly. I was present. Strothers was dissatisfied with the outcome of their mission and intimated that Miss Pemberley had been aiding Thrush. She felled him with a single blow.”

“What about his accusations?”

“Sheer nonsense. Strothers is burdened with a suspicious mind and a glass jaw.” Beldon wagged a finger. “But he’s a good agent. He is now my station chief in Berlin.”

Illya closed the file on Beldon’s pet or peccadillo—he was not yet sure which—and took off his glasses. “I do not believe Miss Pemberley and I will suit any better than she and Strothers.”

“You’re wrong, Illya. I have the utmost confidence in Miss Pemberley, and I assure you, you will too.”

Frustration propelled him to his feet. “This mission requires finesse and a delicate touch.” He slapped the file onto the desk and frowned at the antique katana on prominent display. “I see no evidence of that here.”

“Still inclined to view the glass as half empty, I see. Stress and negativity will ruin your health. My personal physician insists that I rid myself of tension as much as possible, and I’ve had each of my offices thus equipped. In Helsinki, a sauna. In Berlin, a steam room. Here in London, an ofuro tub. You are welcome to make use of it.”

The rear wall held two painted fusama. Beldon flicked a switch, and the right-hand wooden panel slid open. Candlelight flickered in the shadowy space beyond. Water splashed.

“Harry, is that you?” a woman called. “I thought you were arriving tonight.”

The accent was indefinite. If pressed, Illya would say an American whose life was largely spent among foreigners. His eyes swept over the discarded profile to rest on Beldon.

“I took an earlier flight,” Beldon replied over his shoulder. “Mr. Kuryakin is here as well. Come update us on your mission.”

“Now?”

“Yes. He is anxious to hear your progress.”

There was a long pause, then another splash. “It will take me a few minutes to dress. I assume you’ve been at my Mouton Rothschild. Have another glass, but don’t gulp it down this time.”

Beldon looked at Illya significantly and tapped the side of his hooked nose. “We prefer not to wait. I do not insist you appear in only a towel. There is another robe here at your disposal.”

“How convenient.”

The splashing resumed, followed by the dripping of water onto tile. A drain gurgled. Beneath his colorless brows, Beldon’s dark eyes shone with expectancy. He fixed his gaze on Illya, inviting him to partake of the anticipation.

Illya frowned in distaste. “Surely we can give Miss Pemberley time to change.”

“Do not be fooled. There isn’t a shy bone in her body. _Une allumeuse_. But by all means, bring her the robe, if you wish.” He gestured to the rack and called, “Mohammed is coming to the mountain, my dear.”

Illya took the yellow silk robe to the rear of the office and knocked on the panel. In the dim light, he caught a fleeting glimpse of wide eyes in a ghostly-pale face. “Thank you,” she said in her elusory accent. He felt a stab of pity as the garment was whisked from his hand.  
  
Beldon held up an empty glass at his passing. Illya took it to the sideboard to refill. “I can see you disapprove,” Beldon said. “You are thinking that Alexander Waverly would not do this. But I ensure that all my agents, no matter the section, are prepared to operate at maximum efficiency under any conditions.”

A velvety chuckle came from behind the panel. “You’re so good to us, Harry.”

“I am. And if you hope to serve in Section II, you will be thankful for it.”

“You are planning a promotion, then?” Illya asked, handing Beldon his glass.

“In due time. I have several excellent candidates to consider. But UNCLE Northeast will not be left behind.”

Illya turned at the acrid smell of extinguished candles. Miss Pemberley stood in the doorway of the bathing room. Above the golden shimmer of silk, he could just make out the pale oval face crowned with a towering mass of dark hair.

Beldon twisted around to look over the low back rail of the daybed. “We are suitably primed for your entrance, my dear. Come show Mr. Kuryakin how admirably you will suit him.”

Miss Pemberley stepped out into the light. Illya’s brows shot upward, then settled over narrowed eyes. She crossed the room at a leisurely pace, embroidered ocean waves swirling about her bare feet. A green towel formed a turban around her head. The face beneath was obscured by a white beauty mask that left only the eyes and lips exposed.

Beldon laughed. “Playing geisha today?”

A smile stretched across her face. “Isn’t that the idea?” she replied sweetly.

The impossibly wide grin turned to Illya. The hand she extended was well-shaped, the nails varnished in pastel, the skin flushed red from the heat of the bath. Large eyes twinkled at him; oddly-colored, translucent eyes, like a sea gone green beneath an approaching storm.

A memory stirred as his hand fell away from her firm clasp. Black clouds racing over glowing emerald waters. An eerie calm. The thrill of anticipation. A thunderbolt and pelting raindrops. The recollections flickered rapidly though his mind, leaving a vague sense of disquiet to mark their passing.

The wry twist of her lips brought him up short. He had been staring. He could feel Beldon’s gaze and his vicarious pleasure, that of a collector when a treasured piece is admired. Anger and embarrassment colored his face. He gave a curt nod and stepped back.

As he resumed his seat, Miss Pemberley walked to the sideboard. She picked up the decanter, sniffed its mouth, then sighed in pleasure. She poured some claret into a glass, a few purple drops splashing onto the polished wood.

“A libation to Bacchus,” Beldon said.

She looked at the partly depleted decanter and over to Beldon. “I think that’s already been made.” She dabbed some of the claret behind her ears before wiping up the rest with a towel.

“Drink, drink, my dear,” Beldon urged as she turned to face them, swirling her glass gently.

“Some things are worth waiting for.”

Beldon’s lower jaw thrust forward. “Very true.” He looked at Illya. “Wine is one of the few things for which she shows patience. I recall Strothers insisting to her that reds need nothing more than a vigorous shake.”

“And I said so did he.” She stood with one elbow resting on the sideboard as if it were the Oak Bar of the Plaza and sniffed the wine deeply. Illya drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. Finally she took a sip. Her eyes closed as she savored it. “Divine,” she murmured.

She reached for the decanter and filled her glass. An emerald dragon coiled around her like a stole, its head resting on her breast. Illya saw Beldon adjust the fall of his long, colonel tie. He was irked to find his own hand tugging at one of his cuffs.

Beldon said, “Even in that getup, my dear, you manage to make us feel underdressed. How do you do it?”

“Trade secret.” She moved to the chair beside Illya’s and curled up on the seat. The robe pooled around her, and the carved chi armrests seemed to leap from a blue embroidered ocean. The wry smile returned. “Do I pass muster?”

“I hardly know yet,” he said. He regretted the maroon jacket. In his gray suit and blue tie, his cool gaze would be even more effectual.

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, that’s right. Solo is the decisive one,” she said and sipped her wine.

He leaned closer, his voice taking on a rough edge. “So far I have heard only wine and nonsense. I did not come for those.”

“That’s too bad.” She made a sweeping motion with her empty hand. “You’re in the right place for them.”

His eyes darted to Beldon before he registered that she had spoken in Russian. Her accent was precise and formal, even a bit old-fashioned; trained by an elderly expatriate, no doubt, on recitations extolling the glories of old St. Petersburg and the villainy of the Bolsheviks.

Beldon, his bald head resting on a hard leather pillow, registered no sign of offense. “Excellent, my dear. Show Mr. Kuryakin what talents you’re made of.”

“Nonsense and wine and everything nice. That’s what this little girl is made of.” She shifted in her chair, bringing her face closer to Illya’s. “What are you made of, Mr. Kuryakin?”

His mouth felt dry. Beneath drooping lids, her opalescent eyes glowed like hearth fires, threatening to thaw his icy armor. He dropped his gaze. The emerald dragon across her breast gently heaved with each inhalation. Her fingers balanced her wine glass on a silk-draped knee, twisting it meditatively. A fold of the robe exposed one bare foot, the nails varnished in pastel to match her fingers.

Finding no safe haven below, he reinforced his arctic defenses and raised his eyes. Napoleon was better suited for these scenarios, perennially prepared to exchange quip for quip and smolder for smolder. As for himself, such responses did not come readily, and he found the effort of fashioning them to be exhausting.

He met her sultry gaze, and words formed on his lips. He listened in astonishment as he said in Russian, “I am Arkhangelsk in the spring, the Northern Dvina flowing beneath its blanket of ice, and the polar lights dancing across the starlit sky.”

Her lids flew up, and her eyes widened with childlike delight. The mouth stretched into a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat. Illya’s lips began to curve in response.

“Brava,” Beldon called, clapping. “You see, Illya, why I chose Miss Pemberley. We are putty in her hands.”

Illya’s smile died half-formed. Indignation burned like gall in his throat. His lips compressed into a thin line. He regarded her with the cool disdain normally reserved for Angelique. _“Une allumeuse,”_ he hissed.

If her eyes had once held hearth fires, they now blazed into infernos. He drew back. The nonchalant curl of her limbs became a caricature of repose as every muscle stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass until the knuckles turned white. He thought she might throw it, but in which direction he was unsure. He prepared to duck.

A sheen of sweat appeared along the line of skin where her beauty cream met the edge of the towel. He sensed a wrestling of spirit against flesh, and the imposing of a preternatural control over her native temper. He knew the malicious and exhilarating desire for her flesh to win the day. He wondered how many of the furnishings would survive.

The wine glass made a slow climb to her mouth, then tipped its contents down her throat. When the last drop had passed her lips, she sprang from the chair in a flurry of silk and bared legs. She crossed to the sideboard and poured another serving of claret.  
  
Illya found his breathing heavy and his heart beating rapidly. “Your report, Miss Pemberley.”

She had returned to her cocktail lounge pose, the menacing pulse of the emerald dragon the only sign of agitation. “In two days’ time, three at the outermost, Donald Marsden will have broken off his engagement, and Miss Latner and her father will no longer have a reason to refuse protective custody.”

He watched her drink her wine and waited for further explanation. Apparently none was forthcoming. “You are very sure of yourself,” he said, his tone edged with contempt.

The dragon leapt up, then settled. “Would you prefer it otherwise?”

“You yourself have seen that she has every reason to be,” Beldon said. “And I know her methods. Restaurants, discotheques, the theater. The last few days will have been a whirlwind for this young man. By now, his head is quite thoroughly turned.”

“So I should defer to her…expertise.”

“Precisely,” Beldon said.

“A plum assignment, this stealing of fiancés,” he said to her. “You must enjoy your work.”

Her answering smile was more Red Queen than Cheshire Cat. His could feel the axe at his neck.

“We become UNCLE agents to be on the side of the angels, not because we are angels.”

Something that was decidedly not his better nature prompted his reply. “Speak for yourself.”

A spark of delight flashed in her eyes. He suspected something similar shone in his own.

Beldon worked himself upright and brandished his empty glass. She took it with a sigh.

“It seems you have a most fortuitous opportunity before you, Illya.” Beldon looked on in amusement as the glass returned only half full. “A few days relaxation await you while your mission rests in Miss Pemberley’s very capable hands.”

“Please, Harry, my blushes,” she said dryly.

Harry laughed, the bark falling harshly on Illya’s ears. “As if you did, my dear. I have never known you to be coy.”

She faced Beldon’s hungry, possessive gaze with equanimity. “I may be many things, but not that.”

Beldon licked the wine from his lips and turned to Illya, who barely had time to hide his revulsion.

“What do you say, Illya? My amenities are at your disposal.” Beldon gestured to the bathing room, but Illya had the uneasy feeling that he was offering more than the tub.

“I will think about it,” he said.

Beldon stood up from the opium bed. “In that case, I will have a soak. I always build up tension when I travel. For me, it is the destination, not the journey, that matters.”

Miss Pemberley put down her glass. “You forget I need to change first. I’m meeting Donald for drinks this afternoon.”

She strolled across the office and stopped in the threshold of the open fusama. Her hand reached behind the wall, presumably to press a switch. As the panel began to close, she turned around and said, “Who knows? With a little overtime, I might break that engagement by morning.” Her wide smile was the last thing Illya saw as the panel slid shut.

“I have seen a cat without a grin,” he murmured, “but never a grin without a cat.”

Beldon stood at the rack removing his choga. He nodded as Illya said, “I am due to report in to New York.”

“Certainly. You remember where Communications is, of course. And no word to Waverly yet about any promotions. When the time comes, I wish to surprise him as he surprised me.”

“Perish the thought,” Illya said and made his exit.

Once through the smaller office of Beldon’s secretary, he was back in corridors lined in soothing, unadorned chrome. His feet guided him easily to Communications, allowing his thoughts to freely churn.

The young woman manning Communications was new since his transfer from London. It seemed, however, that he was no stranger to her. She met his request with a nervous giggle and flustered hands. “Overseas relay to Headquarters New York. Right away, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Thank you. And after you have the channel open, I need a telephone number.”

“Yes?” she squeaked hopefully.

“Yes.” He steeled himself against her coming disappointment. “The number for a Mr. Donald Marsden, please.”

 

  
Faustina Pemberley waited until the panel slid completely closed, then rested her head against it. “Down, girl,” she whispered.

Her hand groped for the light switch and flipped it on. Beldon’s voice penetrated the wood, muffled but discernible. She engaged the locks quietly.

The bathing room was a small space of white tile and cedar, almost clinical in its simplicity. A few steps brought her to the sink. She gripped the sides of the basin and stared hard at her reflection. “I hope you’re happy. That was quite a show you put on in there.”

After a moment, she pulled the towel from her hair. Without it, the green fled her eyes, leaving them an indistictive grey. As she wiped the cream from her face, the wry smile returned. “Staring like a schoolgirl too.” She shook her head. “And what’s worse, he knew it.”

She continued to clean her face. Soon she was humming. Her eyes ceased to focus on the mirror. Her smile widened. “Illya,” she purred.

At the sound of her voice, her thoughts snapped back from their pleasant wanderings. She slammed a fist onto the basin and followed it with a string of exotic oaths, several from languages not listed in her profile.

“Don’t you dare.” She eyed herself sternly and pointed an admonishing finger. “No distractions.”

She turned from the mirror, threw off the robe, and proceeded to take a very cold shower.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Illya sat at the corner table of the saloon, his eyes on the doors and his hands around a pint. Despite post-war renovations, the Portly Porter retained its Victorian atmosphere, the sign labeling the adjacent room as the Cocktail Lounge one of the few indications that the pub and the Eastern Grande Hotel surrounding it had been acquired by Americans.

Donald Marsden was late. As Illya slowly drained his pint, the pattern of his thoughts was reflected in an occasional flex of his lips and a sardonic tilt of his brows. These mental abstractions did not prevent his noting each new patron, whether arriving by the street entrance or the door to the Lounge intended for hotel guests and those willing to pay higher prices for wait service. Expenses had been steep that month, so he was not willing.

A small knot of people entered, none matching the photo in Illya’s breast pocket. As the men headed for the counter, a bright young thing peered myopically at the dimly-lit banquettes along the back wall. Her roving eyes paused two tables to his left, where a man sat behind a copy of _The Times_. With a little wave of recognition, she walked towards them. Illya felt a pang of envy at the man whose afternoon consisted of pint, paper, and pretty girl. Then he dismissed the thought as unproductive and resumed his watch on the doors.

By the time he registered that anything was amiss, it was too late. The bargirl was busily clearing tables. The young woman passed behind her and carried off a half-empty glass from her tray. He had just begun to puzzle over this surreptitious maneuver, when the young woman stopped in front of him. “Bastard,” she said from between clenched teeth and flung the contents at him.

Runnels of lukewarm beer ran down his face and beneath his collar. Illya shook his head, then opened one eye at his assailant. Brown hair drawn into loose pigtails below the ears. A china-doll complexion. Angry blue eyes. He blew a drip from the end of his nose. “Miss Pemberley, I presume.”

_“Angelochek moi.”_

The man at the nearby table poked his head around a bent corner of _The Times_. “I say—” he began. Two antagonistic gazes, like fire and ice, rounded on him. He swallowed and retreated behind the paper.

The bargirl was not so easily put off. “Here, what’s all this about?”

Illya sat stone-faced, mopping himself with a handkerchief. Miss Pemberley set the empty glass on the table with a bang. The bargirl appraised them knowingly. “Was this chap bothering you, miss?”

Illya looked at her in affront. Miss Pemberley made a harsh noise, something between a laugh and a sob, and dug through her handbag. “Bothering me? Sneaking off behind my back. Clandestine meetings.” She broke off her anguished sputtering to dab her eyes with a scrap of cambric. “And after all I’ve done for him.” With a piteous moan, she crumpled into the opposing chair.

“There, there, miss.” The bargirl patted Miss Pemberley’s trembling shoulder and glared at Illya in righteous indignation.

“A simple misunderstanding,” he said, wringing his sodden handkerchief into the empty glass, “and one I am anxious to clear up. Privately.”

The ring on his left hand caught the light. The bargirl gave an angry toss of her head when she saw it. “Of course, sir. It’d be a shame if the wrong party got wind of it.” After squeezing Miss Pemberley’s shoulder in solidarity, she threw her towel on the table and stalked away.

When they were alone, Miss Pemberley raised dry eyes that watched him with complacency. The damp bar cloth smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Illya wiped his ruined tie, frowning in distaste, while considering several acid comments. “Do you always do the first thing that enters your head?” he asked finally.

A little crease formed above the bridge of her nose. “Not like I used to. I seem to have had a relapse today.”

He raised his brows at this show of candor and responded in kind. “What have you done with Donald Marsden?”

“The very thing I was going to ask you.”

“You might have done that first, rather than casting aspersions on my parents.”

Her mouth was a shining pink Cupid’s bow, carefully drawn, and her smile curved to match. “Lovely people, I’m sure,” she purred, “and you their blue-eyed cherub.”

If the tone was insincere, the eyes were not. They were also no longer green but the blue-grey of the Baltic at dawn. Eyes as changeable as the sea, one moment shining warmly, the next storming with renewed anger. He remembered that he hated the sea.

“I could file a report on this,” he said and immediately regretted it. What was meant to reprove instead sounded petulant.

The slim gold case she pulled from her handbag flipped open to reveal a notepad and pencil. “‘After interfering in Agent Pemberley’s mission—’” she said as she wrote.

“It is _my_ mission, and I am completing it as I see fit.”

She tore off the sheet and handed it to him. He asked, “What’s this?”

“My name. Three Es in Pemberley. People tend to leave one out.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He folded the paper carefully before slipping it into a dry pocket. “Where is Donald Marsden?”

“Otherwise occupied. Someone held up his bank.”

“An extraordinary coincidence. May I look forward to your imminent arrest?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it was in the capable hands of Posh Pete.”

At the mention of ironically-named thief, Illya was surprised into a brief smile. “I should have guessed.” He had fond memories of the wizened old man with a face like a dried apple and an accent straight out of a music hall. “He has not retired yet?”

“Not Pete. He’ll die with his boots on.”

“And his hand in someone’s pocket.” He knew from her answering smile that she had a similar fondness for the scoundrel.

Her smile grew fixed. “I told you I had this affair sewn up, perhaps even by morning. Now you’ve sabotaged my hard work.”

“Sabotage,” he said. “Careful. That kind of talk can provoke a violent response.”

Her eyes flashed. _“En guard,_ in other words. Well, I’m not much at judo, but I should warn you, I do bite.”

His thoughts veered in an unexpected and unwelcome direction. He gripped his own pint glass tightly. “How is it that no one has yet strangled you?”

The crease at the top of her nose reappeared, and her eyes looked upward as if in thought. An attitude designed to irritate him, he suspected. She said, “Born under a lucky sign, I suppose.”

He gave her his most quelling stare, determined to regain the upper hand. Her expression immediately sobered, but he put no trust in it. Her true thoughts were as elusive as the face that had hidden earlier beneath the beauty mask, and now behind a meticulously applied ‘London Look.’ Eyes accentuated by layers of shadow and impossible lashes. Porcelain skin with delicately tinted cheeks. Rosebud mouth in shimmering pink. The small, unflattering photo from her profile seemed to have no relation to the woman before him.

“This mission was originally Mr. Solo’s, until he was reassigned, and the seduction idea was his. He is fond on a convoluted ploy.”

“Convoluted or not, it was working. The staid banker, engaged to marry his mousy grade-school sweetheart, suddenly finds a vivacious young mod interested in him. Heady stuff. Donald Marsden was almost mine for the taking.”

He could well believe it. Her blue mini-dress gave tantalizing hints of the figure underneath while its white Peter Pan collar drew attention to her face. Her legs were sheathed in white patterned tights and finished with pointy slingback heels. She exuded just the right amount of modern, swinging London, a girl able to introduce Donald to exciting new scenes but also someone he could take to dinner with his bank’s directors. No wonder he was on the cusp of breaking his engagement to Miss Latner. “With a little overtime tonight.”

He had not meant to say that. She might not blush, but he did. He could feel the warmth rising up his neck and onto his face.

She raised her brows. “Unprepared to have my virtue on your conscience. Well, don’t worry. _Une allumeuse,_ remember.”

He suppressed a fresh wave of indignation. “Don’t be ridiculous. I decided that a more straight-forward approach would be better.”

“So I gathered from Donald’s rather flustered phone call. What exactly did you say to him?”

Somehow he was on the defensive again. “That I was from a security organization and that we had reason to believe his fiancée and her father were in danger. I would explain the rest when we met.”

“At which time, you would convince him to do the chivalrous thing and give her up.”

“Yes.”

“You were right about one thing. Under that dry banking exterior does beat the heart of a knight. Only he’s not bent on noble sacrifice. He’s bent on rescuing fair maiden.”

“What?”

“He informed me that his fiancée was in peril and that he was getting a seat on the next flight back to the States. Thankfully Posh Pete works quickly. I just hope Donald’s been too busy to go through with his plans.”  
  
_“Chyort.”_

“Exactly.”

He stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To call Marsden.”

When he returned from the phone, the table had been cleaned and his pint refreshed. He was as clean as a short trip to the Gents would allow.

Miss Pemberley sat on the bench perpendicular to his, sipping a glass of white wine. “Well?”

He shook his head and sat down. “He is determined to be the knight errant. Fool. What can he hope to do against Thrush?”

“They’ll crush him like a bug.”

“At least Posh Pete was successful. With all the uproar at the bank, Marsden was too late to get a ticket for tonight. But he does plan to fly out tomorrow.” He drank deeply from his pint and prepared to take his medicine. “I miscalculated.”

He waited for her to gloat. Her eyes shone briefly with what might have been triumph. Then she was thoughtful and silent.

“Did you give me away?” she asked after a minute.

“No.”

“Good.” She stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To call Donald.”

She returned a short while later, crossing the saloon with a spring in her step, every bit the vivacious mod of Napoleon’s plan. He became very aware of the damp shirt clinging to his chest and the odor of hops hanging about him like a cloud. As she slid onto the bench, he had the urge to apologize, then recalled who was responsible for his current state.

“It took a little doing,” she said, “but I convinced him to meet me for dinner.”

“Where, I gather, you will dissuade him from his noble quest. Still that sure of yourself?”

“This one may be beyond even my manifold charms.” The pink Cupid’s bow twisted wryly. “I do build in a certain scenario, just in case they need an extra push.”

“Aha. Not so confident after all.”

She chuckled. “There’s confidence, and then there’s hubris. I can allow for the possibility that someone might not fall madly in love with me.”

“Big of you.” He wondered where she placed colleagues on her scale of possibility. Beldon had called her a gypsy, but his fascinating friends did have a way of using a place up. “What is this scenario?”

“I call it ‘The Wicked Guardian’s Grasp.’”

“Very gothic.”

“So gothic, it’s a dark manor on a storm-swept cliff, and a woman fleeing into the night, inexplicably dressed in a white nightgown.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go on.”

“Actually it’s a Wicked Trustee, but that doesn’t sound as good. He controls my inheritance and hopes to marry me himself.”  
  
“I assume he’s unpleasant.”

“Very. An aging roué desperately clinging to youth through sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.”

“And how exactly does this scenario help us?”

“It makes me a damsel in distress. Donald’s newfound protective instincts need an outlet. Hopefully we can convince him that one man against an evil international syndicate is suicide. But against a Wicked Guardian?”

“One knight in shining armor could save the day.” He nodded. “It might work. Harry could be a convincing Wicked Guardian.”

She shook her head. The carefully redrawn lips stretched into her Cheshire Cat grin.

“I categorically refuse,” Illya said.

“You owe me. It was your miscalculation.”

“I knew that was coming. No woman can resist an ‘I told you so.’”

Her eyes issued storm warnings. “Bringing in Harry will require some rather awkward explanations. And then there’s the matter of my expenses.”

“That sounds like blackmail.”

She gestured to her ensemble, every piece of which spoke of exclusive boutiques and even more exclusive prices. “Someone will be responsible for all the bills if this goes South, and it won’t be me.”

“Are they not fringe benefits? Harry has always been very generous to those he takes a special interest in.”

Once on a mission he had worked a Baltic freighter and been run aground in a violent storm. Looking at her face, he knew the same sick feeling and same the desire to be absolutely anyplace else in the world. At the twitch of her hand, he quickly secured both their glasses.

“I apologize. Your relationship with Harry Beldon is none of my business.”

He waited for her to hotly deny that any such relationship existed. She did not. “You’re right. It is none of your business,” she said between clenched teeth. She sat rigidly upright, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as if she might thrust it away at any moment. Her furious gaze held his.

Then, as quickly as it had risen, the storm passed. She sank back against the bench, and her hands fell limply to her sides. The bright young thing was extinguished. She looked weary. He had seen the look before in his own mirror.

She said, “On second thought, Harry was born to play the Wicked Guardian. I will make the arrangements with him.” She looped her handbag over her arm. “You’ll hear from me by morning.”

She began to slide from the bench, then checked as his hand gripped her arm gently. The eyes she turned back to him were suspiciously bright. He would not swear they were tears; she seemed too hard for those.

His free hand opened, revealing the folded notepaper on which she had written her name. He crumpled it up and dropped it into the dregs of his beer. The other hand released her arm. It rose slowly until it was level with her mouth. “Bite.”

Her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

He moved the hand to his chin, which was thrust forward. “Or strike. Whichever you please.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to hold back the burgeoning smile. “I’ll take a raincheck.”

He nodded solemnly, his own lips flexing. “I am afraid I did not pack for sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll.”

“A terrible oversight.”

“Just what are Wicked Guardians wearing this season?”

She gave her grin free rein, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. He swallowed in sudden trepidation.

“Come,” she said, sliding from the bench.

“Where?”

“King’s Road. We’re going shopping.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The narrow Georgian townhouse was for generations the London residence of the Cubbitt family, before two world wars rendered their line extinct. In honor of the building’s history, a portrait of the notorious Sir Charles Cubbitt, resplendent in powdered wig and scarlet satin, hung in the front hall of the Jacobite Club, which a Pathé newsreel had recently named ‘the current temple of the In.’ Sir Charles greeted the colorfully-arrayed guests much as he had done two centuries earlier, his raffish air exuding sympathetic vibes over the young mods, particularly toward the scantily-clad girls. The less sympathetic Victorian Cubbitts had been hung in the Ladies and Gents.

At her companion’s inquiring glance, Faustina Pemberley shook her head and gestured to the sign marked Casino. The arrow pointed up a deeply-carpeted staircase. She ascended, Donald Marsden close behind, his hand still rattling the pocket change remaining from what he had announced to be an ‘exorbitant’ entrance fee. “I should try to reach Louise,” he said. “I don’t understand why I haven’t been able to get through.”

She paused on the landing to allow a couple to pass. Donald drew up beside her and stared perplexedly at a psychedelic interpretation of the Triple Portrait of Charles I. With his snub nose, guileless brown eyes, and shock of sandy hair, Donald hardly looked like a Wharton graduate and junior executive. Though they were near in age, she felt ancient in comparison.

She touched his chin and turned his face toward hers. “There’s plenty of time to call. It’s only afternoon in Ohio.” Her fingers traced a pattern on the lapel of his dark suit. “Please, Donald. He frightens me.”

His hands came to rest on her shoulders; large, unimaginative hands, which sat heavily and made no attempt to caress her bare skin. “All right, Frannie. For a little while.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Donald. Really.” Her accent reflected her cover story, country breeding with a London polish, an attention to detail undoubtedly lost on him.

When he gave a dazed smile, she raised her face invitingly. He looked around and, finding they were alone on the landing, pressed a kiss on her cheek. His hands remained on her shoulders, unmoving. With detached curiosity, she wondered what he would have done if she had turned her head and met his lips with hers. 

Donald stepped back and dropped his arms to his sides. “I shouldn’t do that.”

“I shouldn’t let you.”

“But when I’m with you, I can’t seem to help myself.”

They climbed the remaining flight of stairs and crossed the passage to an open doorway. What had once been the drawing room was now a small casino. Sir Charles, a passionate devotee of faro, would have approved. A half dozen gaming tables, manned by liveried croupiers, were scattered about the space, a few eager players sitting at each. One table had attracted an audience.

“Do you see him?” Donald asked.

“No.”

The knot of onlookers erupted into applause. He craned his neck. “Who’s back there? Some movie star?”

“Too early. It’s usually midnight before you see anyone who’s really In.”

“You’re really In in my book,” he said awkwardly.

She linked her arm through his. “Oh, Donald, you are sweet.”

He signaled a passing waiter. “What’s all the hoopla over there?”

“Some punter cleaned up at pontoon. Now he’s trying his luck at roulette.”

The crowd at the table shifted, and she gave a gasp. “It’s Victor.”

In his King’s Road garments, Illya was hardly recognizable. The William Morris jacket, a profusion of greens, reds, and browns, was worn over a blood red shirt with ruffles at the front and cuffs. Brown velvet pants, which had looked particularly nice from the back, clung to his legs. The thought that he likely hated the outfit brought a pleasant bubble of amusement. 

His claimed ability to count cards had not been an idle boast. A healthy stack of jetons graced the table before him. As he watched the wheel spin, he flipped a token across the back of his fingers. He had seen them. There was another clamor of excitement and applause. The girl beside him, her canary-yellow dress bristling with sequins, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. He collected his winnings and began to pass out tokens to all the girls clustered around him. 

As she and Donald drew closer, Illya announced that he was letting it all ride on red. The fawning assemblage murmured in anticipation. The wheel spun. A hushed pause. A general groan. 11 Black.

Illya laughed. “Easy come, easy go.”

The audience dispersed as the croupier raked away Illya’s winnings. The girl in yellow pressed herself against him and held up a handful of tokens. “Thank you for these.” She kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. He responded enthusiastically.

“You’re welcome,” he said, pulling back. As the girl strolled away, he swatted her swaying bottom.

Donald cleared his throat, and Illya turned with a show of surprise. “Fancy.” He claimed her hands and spread them out wide. “Let me have a look at you.”

He ran a leering gaze over her. Through the amber tint of his wire-framed glasses, his eyes shone a feline green. “Very fancy indeed.”

A familiar thrill coursed through her at his admiration, though she reminded herself it was part of his act. She took quick stock of the transformation he had effected while she was at dinner. The eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated. Wrinkles radiated from the corners. A red flush stained his puffy cheeks and continued over his nose. Silver streaked his temples. A handsome face deteriorating from hard living and excess. 

His hands, heavy with rings, held fast to hers. A tiger’s eye had replaced the gold band. She canted her head towards the young banker beside her. “Victor, this is my friend, Donald Marsden.”

His eyes flicked quickly to Donald and back again, showing little interest. “Pleasure, Donny.” He pressed a lingering kiss on the knuckles of each of her hands. “Lovely Fancy.” 

She detected nothing of Russia in his speech, only hints of Cambridge. “Victor, please.” She pulled away from his grasp. 

He turned to Donald with a grin. “I love it when she plays coy.” 

“Frances is many things, but I don’t think that’s one of them,” Donald said stiffly.

It was a strange parody of her conversation with Harry Beldon. Her gaze slid to Illya and found him gazing back. Whether the cynical glint was for Donald or for her, she could not be sure. 

Illya wrapped his arm around her waist. “Come on, I fancy another drink.” He laughed at his own wordplay.

They descended the staircase single-file against a stream of guests. Through the archway, the barman of the Bonnie Prince Charlie, which consumed half the ground floor, could be heard greeting patrons and taking orders. 

“Not that way, my tulips,” Illya said as she and Donald made for the bar. He waved a beckoning hand over his shoulder and disappeared through the doorway opposite. Its Adam style trim was topped with a neon sign blinking The Forty-Five.

A rhythmic thumping of bass and drums emanated from the basement discotheque, punctuated by an intermittent pounding that shook the stairs. On a small stage against the far wall, a Scandinavian girlband played a cover of Glad All Over, a theremin prominently featured. The tightly-packed crowd on the dance floor jumped en masse throughout the chorus.

Illya led them to a corner table and waved them into the seats facing the band. He scooted the third chair around and sat with his knee brushing hers. A waitress responded to his hail.

“A bottle of champagne and three glasses.”

Donald made a gesture of refusal. “Coca-Cola for me.” 

Illya looked at him scornfully. “Come on, Donny, this is London, not…where is it you’re from?”

“Circleville, Ohio.”

“This is not Circleville, Ohio.”

“Just Coke, please,” Donald said firmly, addressing the waitress. 

Illya rubbed the tip of his nose. “You sure it’s not Squaresville, Ohio,” he said and laughed unpleasantly.

The next song was too loud for conversation. After the champagne arrived, Illya raised his glass in a toast. “To Fancy,” he shouted and drained the glass. As he refilled it, he draped his other arm along the back of her chair, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the edge of her shoulder. Donald sipped his Coke and watched with furrowed brow.

Gratified by the frown, she leaned forward to evade Illya’s touch. The memories it evoked were pleasant but distracting. Etienne had rested his arm behind her in that way. His long, slender fingers would curve against her side, sometimes caressing the edge of her breast when no one was watching. On those nights they would leave the party early. It was all so long ago, in another lifetime.

When the band began a comparatively quieter song, Illya drawled, “So, Donny, what do you do?”

Donald straightened his shoulders. “I’m with Barnes & Babcock.”

“A banker?” Illya looked him over, his amusement edged with contempt. “Never would have guessed.”

“And what do you do, Asquith?”

He rubbed at his nose. “Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. You know how it is.”

“Not really.”

“Well, mostly I look after Fancy’s interests. Don’t I, darling?” He pinched her chin. “A pretty face, but no head for business. Someone’s got to keep that ancestral pile of yours standing.”

She jerked her face from his hand. “My bedroom still has a leak, Victor.”

An ugly look crossed his face, and he drank deeply of his champagne. When he put the glass down, he said with exaggerated nonchalance, “Old Hawkins hasn’t had that fixed? Must be getting past his prime.”

Illya was very good at his work. If she observed him carefully, she could pick up a few more tricks of the trade. A better reason for watching him than her current one, which felt uncomfortably like thirst. 

“He can’t fix it until you authorize the funds,” she said. “He’s written you several times.”

“Funny, I’m sure I took care of that. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we drive down there this weekend, just you and me?” The hand on the chair back reached up to fondle a dangling curl. “I’ll look into this roof situation, and then we can find other ways to entertain ourselves.” His finger skimmed the edge of her ear.

A tempting offer, which was a thought that could not show on her face. “Actually, Donald and I had plans for this weekend.” Her eyes pleaded with Marsden, and her foot prodded him under the table.

Donald coughed on a mouthful of soda. “Yes, we’re going to, uh, Bath.”

“Is that so?” Illya drawled. “Taking the waters?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve read that the city dates back to Roman times. We have nothing like that in the U.S.”

“Nothing like that either.” Illya gestured to a girl on the edge of the dance floor whose dress was made entirely from triangles of orange plastic.

Donald frowned. “Definitely not in Ohio.”

The girl in the orange triangles smiled at Illya provocatively and waggled her fingers. “Pardon me.” He drained his glass and headed for the dance floor.

“You’re right, Frannie. There’s something fishy about that guy.” Donald shook his head. “Looks as if he’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard, too.”

She watched Illya dance, a perfect imitation of a man a little worse for the drink trying a little too hard. “We’re lucky if that’s all he’s been hitting.”

Donald’s brown eyes looked at her in confusion. She tapped the tip of her nose.

“No,” he said, sounding scandalized.

“That’s why the roof isn’t fixed, I’m certain of it. He’s spent the money on drugs.” At the last word, her voice dropped to a stage whisper.

Donald whistled.

“He has a way of looking at me, almost like I’m…unclothed.” She dropped her eyes so her lashes fanned demurely against her cheeks. “And then when he touches me.” She shuddered. Her lip trembled.

“Hey, there. Don’t do that.” He scrambled for his handkerchief. When he held it out to her, she grasped his hand and raised tear-filled eyes to his.

“Oh, Donald. If I had to marry Victor, I think I’d go mad.”

He squeezed her fingers, then dabbed at her eyes clumsily. “Are you sure it’s marriage he wants and not just…” Even in the low light, she could see his cheeks flush. “Well, you know.”

“I’m positive. If I marry someone else, he’ll lose access to my money. And if he’s been embezzling, it would be bound to come out.”

He lowered the handkerchief and squinted his eyes in thought. “It will take a while to sort out this trouble that Louise and her father are in. Maybe when I come back, I could look into your accounts, discreetly, of course, and make sure there’s been no funny business.”

She scooted forward until her knee touched his. Her hand clutched his sleeve. “And what if you don’t come back?”

“What?”

“That man from UNCLE told you that Louise was in danger. If you go to her, you’ll be in danger too.”

He patted her fingers. “I can handle myself. I might not have seen combat, but I did serve.”

The tears returned to her eyes. “These are cut-throats and murderers you’d be up against. UNCLE said they’d do everything in their power to keep Louise and her father safe. But who’s going to keep me safe? Without you, I’ve no one.”

His large hand pressed hers. “Gee, Frannie, when you talk like that, I don’t know what to do.”

She mustered her most adoring gaze. “You will, Donald. I know you won’t let me down.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clack, clack, clack. The girl in the triangles knocked her hip against his. Her gyrations had already loosened one orange segment, which dangled below her hemline by a wire ring.

Illya was in no position to condemn her sartorial adventures. If that dubious King’s Road shop had been properly lit, he would never have consented to his own outfit. The reek of incense and patchouli clung to him still. Apart from the ridiculous dress, the girl was an attractive dance partner. Napoleon would be envious of this night, particularly when he read a report which covered the Jacobite Club in thorough detail.

Or in fairly thorough detail. He looked over the bouncing shoulder to the corner, where an iridescent dress caught the light and sent it back in flashes of blue and violet. Beldon was correct. Miss Pemberley had Marsden eating out of the palm of her hand. Quite likely he had spoken from experience. Why else would he have given her carte blanche on this affair? That couture Lurex shift would have cost the earth. His own clothes certainly had. Harry’s largesse was never motivated by altruism.

The girls on stage vamped their song to a conclusion. As he watched, Miss Pemberley adjusted one of the silver flowers decorating her upswept curls. He was recalled. He steered his partner within earshot of the table. Her dress clattered as he dipped her back. “À bientôt, ma chérie.” 

When righted, the girl yanked the dangling triangle from her hem. She slipped her fingers beneath his lapel and, with a wink, tucked it into his shirt pocket. Then she skipped back onto the dance floor.

As Illya circled the table, Marsden withdrew his hand from Miss Pemberley’s grasp but kept his eyes fixed on her face. He had the look of a dog invited from the hitherto satisfactory comforts of his kennel into the mysterious, shining warmth of the house. Poor bastard. Little did he guess he would soon be out on the street.

Illya paused behind Miss Pemberley’s chair. “Fancy a dance, love?” He stroked her arms from shoulder to elbow, her skin like silk beneath his fingertips. A subtle thrill, like a static charge, hummed though his body. A normal biological reaction, one that he would not allow to disconcert him. Thanks to Thrush, each mission rolled into the next, and it had been a long while since he had satisfied that urge. He was loath to poach in Beldon’s preserves, however.

She answered his question in tones of barely concealed dismay. “No, thank you, Victor. I’d rather sit.”

“Now, don’t be a bore.” He grasped her arms and drew her back, pressing her shoulders against him. “Donny won’t mind. It will give him a chance to watch the dollybirds. Very short plumage this season.” He winked at Marsden.

The banker’s mild eyes reflected confusion, then affront. “Frances is the only ‘bird’ I’m here for, Asquith.”

Illya bent low, his breath rustling the curl at her cheek. She smelled like a Yardley’s display. Fresh notes of violet and bergamot relieved the fug of incense surrounding him. His heartbeat quickened. “Come on, Fancy. Let’s see you shake it in that dress.” 

Her body was rigid with mock protest, but he felt the tiniest tremor course through her. Or perhaps it was his own fingers that shook. Vivid, unprofessional imaginings clamored to take the forefront of this thoughts. Beldon had said to enjoy his amenities. What would be the harm?

“Dance with me,” he urged gruffly. Perhaps he had drunk too much, for rarely did a role consume him to this extent. The line between fantasy and reality blurred. In that moment, he _was_ Victor, at the mercy of unbounded appetites, desperate to possess the woman before him. Her body he would worship, along with all the worldly goods she would endow.

“Please, Victor,” she said breathlessly, “my head is very bad.”

“A headache?” he murmured, his words only for her. “I have a cure for that.”

“Let me guess. More champagne?” Marsden asked. 

His attempt at contemptuous laughter broke into Illya’s awareness. Apparently Marsden could read lips. He straightened. He was himself again, and she was still _une allumeuse._

“That’s part of it,” he responded, imbuing his smile with as much lechery as possible.

Miss Pemberley pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s quite useless, I’m afraid.”

Silently, he agreed. Aloud he said, “A martyr to headaches already? You’re not even married.” He lifted her chin until her upturned face was looking at his. “At least not yet.”

Marsden cleared his throat. “I plan to fix that, as soon as Frances names the day.”

Illya released Miss Pemberley’s chin. “Pardon?”

“Donald has asked me to marry him.” She extended her hand to Marsden, who immediately engulfed it in his larger ones. “I have accepted,” she said.

Illya blinked. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Miss Pemberley had done it. Marsden would break with Louise Latner. Louise and her father would go into UNCLE’s protective custody. UNCLE would deny Thrush an eminent scientist. Another mission successfully accomplished. Instead of satisfaction, however, he felt only Victor’s anger. This affair could not end soon enough.

“I suppose you want my blessing,” he said after what felt like minutes.

“We’d appreciate it, naturally, but I don’t think your trusteeship covers matters of the heart.”

“Not as such, though I could make things difficult.” Illya sat down heavily and refilled his glass. “If I were concerned that Fancy had chosen someone unworthy of her, that is.”

“I can provide for Frances. Don’t you worry about that.”

He rubbed at his nose in agitation. “But I do worry, Donny. That’s my job.” 

“Well, it’ll be my job soon. This stint in England has put me in line for a promotion.”

“A large one, I hope.” He indicated Miss Pemberley’s dress with a tilt of his glass. “Fancy has very expensive tastes.” 

“Big enough. As for the leaky roof and Frances’ other interests, you couldn’t ask for them to be in better hands.”

Illya flexed his ringed fingers. “Not to slight you, Donny, but I never imagined them in better hands than my own.”

“You’re concerned for her future, of course. Right now I’m just the proverbial pig in a poke.” The bluff good humor in Marsden’s laugh had a forced edge.

“Something like that.”

The band began a song distinguished more by its raucous noise than its melodiousness. Marsden frowned. “I can barely hear myself think in this place. Let’s go to my hotel. I’ve got some papers there that’ll help relieve any doubts you’ve got about me. In turn, you can give me a better idea of Frances’ financial picture.” 

Illya watched a knot of girls cross to the stairs leading up to the bar. “I’ve a terrible memory for figures. At least that kind.” He tugged at his nose, then rose abruptly. “Tell you what, you two get us a taxi, and I’ll join you shortly. I’ve something to take care of first.” 

Sir Ranulph Cubbitt looked on, his immense mustache bristling in disapproval, as Illya examined himself in the Gents’ mirror. His disguise was holding up. Another application of eye drops gave his pupils a telltale dilation without the blurred vision, though the special formula did little to ease the increased sensitivity to light. He escaped the glare of the club with relief and strolled down the dusky pavement.

A taxi waited at the curb nearby. The passing headlights illuminated its back window, silhouetting two faces about to meet. Miss Pemberley had started to clock overtime. Illya quickened his pace. When he opened the cab door, Marsden was pocketing his handkerchief. A smudge of shimmering pink remained below his lip. Miss Pemberley examined her face in a compact. 

“Now, now, my tulips,” he cooed, “save something for the wedding trip.”

Rather than taking a jump seat, Illya squeezed between the pair and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. “I’ve had a brilliant idea. When you take Fancy to the States, I can look after things on this side of the Pond. No reason to let sordid business disrupt your newly-wedded bliss.” 

“Thanks, Asquith, but I mean to handle it myself.”

“Don’t reject my offer out of hand. Just think on it a bit. I know if I had Fancy on a honeymoon, finance will be the last thing on my mind.” It was too dark for a wink, so he sniggered instead.

As the taxi crossed London, Illya produced a manic stream of risqué anecdotes, fueled by a nervous energy he associated more with the beginning of a mission than the conclusion. To his left Marsden sat stiff with offense, the formality of attentive grunts finally dissolving into disapproving silence. Miss Pemberley leaned to the right with her head resting against the window and uttered the occasional “Victor, please!” to his more outrageous observances. Beneath her icy surface, a diffuse flow of amusement warmed the chill depths. If she hoped to reach Section II, she would need to suppress such reactions. Not every mark was as stolid and unimaginative as Marsden.

The taxi pulled up before an imposing Victorian façade. The front awning was emblazoned with a twelve-pointed star. “The Eastern Grande. Of course,” Illya said drily. 

“I’m lucky it’s so close to the bank,” Marsden replied. “‘For a winning stay, stay Wynten.’”

The hotel lobby was elegantly appointed and corporately branded. From floor to ceiling, the familiar star logo reassured U.S. tourists and businessmen that air-conditioning, en suite bathrooms, and in-room televisions would make their international stay as American as possible.

Illya rolled his eyes as they crossed to the desk. “How it cheers me that Fancy’s chosen someone so predictable. No nasty, uncomfortable adventures will disrupt her future.”

Marsden peered back at him with suspicion. “Bankers like things to be steady and predictable,” he said, almost apologetically. “Though nothing’s been that way since I got here.” He paused and, looking at Miss Pemberley, made an awkward sweep of his arm. “Meeting you, Frannie, was just like getting a knock on the head. Now all I see is stars.”

Her eyes traveled around the lobby and returned to Marsden with surprise. She put her hand on his lapel. “Why, Donald, that’s lovely.” 

Illya drew up beside her. “I bet that’s just what Wynten said when he proposed,” he sneered.

Miss Pemberley rounded on him, eyes flashing. “She gave him the brooch out of love, to help save his business. And out of love he worked like a dog to win it back for her. It’s very romantic.”

Her anger was unfeigned. His nerves needed an outlet, and a row would do as well as anything…almost anything. He jerked his thumb toward a plaque which memorialized the company’s history, a fixture in every Wynten property. 

“It’s very good advertising copy, and likely just as apocryphal.” He brought his face closer to hers. “Life’s not a fairy story, Fancy,” he growled.

“You’re wrong.” She leaned forward as well, violets and bergamot preceding her. “Life is a fairy story. One where—"

“Where stepsisters have their eyes plucked out?”

Her own changeable eyes, so near to his, shone with anger and anticipation. “As do some princes.”

“And a mermaid dissolves into sea foam.”

Her lips began to stretch, teasing him with the thought of her Cheshire Cat grin. “And a greedy little man tears himself in half,” she said.

“Only if you say his name.” To hear his name on her lips in that prim accent, redolent of Old St. Petersburg, would tear him to pieces. It must be the eye drops. Perhaps in combination with alcohol, they acted as a narcotic, reducing inhibitions. He would have to inform the lab of this potential side effect.

Her lips parted. He held his breath. 

“Frannie?” Marsden said.

It was as if with that one word, Marsden had triggered an implosion. A flash of white heat lit her eyes. She recoiled from him into the curve of Marsden’s extended arm. Her eyes fixed on the banker with a pathetic adoration. “And brave knights rescue fair maidens.”

Illya watched as Marsden’s hands settled heavily on her shoulders. Soft, silky shoulders, masking hidden strength. Like pearls before swine. “If I were Wynten, I’d have sold the Star and bought a yacht,” he declared, brushing past them. “Who needs a string of hotels when you can sail around the world?”

At the front desk, the clerk handed Marsden his key and a piece of paper. “Here you are, sir. A telephone call came in for you, as well.”

“Thank you.” He handed his key to Miss Pemberley. “Here, take Asquith up to my room while I return this call. Order some drinks.” 

Illya watched their exchange in a mirror. Miss Pemberley looked at Marsden with dismay. He mouthed the word ‘Louise.’ She nodded. He moved to step by her, paused, then wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her firmly.

Illya’s lip curled. “Apparently Ohio is not so different from London after all.”

Marsden ignored him. “I won’t be long,” he said and headed for the telephones.

Illya followed Miss Pemberley into the elevator. He supposed he should acknowledge her success, but he was in no mood to be gracious. The sparkle in her eyes told him she took the compliment as given. 

“Marsden seems to know his way around the back seat of a car,” he said.

She shrugged. “Not as well as you’d think, considering he and Louise have been together since they were kids. That’s a lot of time to practice.” There was little sympathy in her tone.

“Do you feel at all bad for her?”

The wrinkle of consideration formed between her brows. “She’ll be better off without him. Their relationship was obviously going nowhere. He could have married her a dozen times over if he had really wanted to.”

“And Marsden? He had no hesitation about marrying Frances.”

“A banker should know better.” She made a scoffing exhalation. “Selling out of a stable, long-term investment for a get-rich-quick scheme? You get what you deserve.”

“Hard, aren’t you?” 

She leaned her head back against the elevator wall. “Maybe, _angelochek moi._ Or maybe it’s just my armor.”

Was she capable of giving a straight answer? He thought not. Perhaps it was that elusiveness which attracted Beldon. “And beneath the armor?” he asked in earnest.

Her eyes widened at his tone. He knew the sensation that came when a lock turned, a door eased in, and a face peered through the opening.

The elevator shuddered to a halt. She straightened. He could feel the door shut. “Beneath this armor? Nonsense and wine and everything nice. Remember?”

When they reached Marsden’s room, Illya took the key and let them in. The small hotel suite was tastefully but generically furnished. He tossed the key onto an end table, where it landed in front of an oval frame. 

He picked up the portrait. Even with her cat-eye glasses and small, tight-lipped smile, Louise Latner had a conventional prettiness that exceeded Miss Pemberley’s. Yet Illya was in no doubt as to why Marsden had chosen as he did. He watched her go to the writing desk and pick up the phone. Her figure was good, and she knew how to dress it to best effect. From an extravagantly beaded collar, the halter-neck shift descended to her knees with deceptive simplicity. The iridescent fabric was as elusory as its wearer, shifting from violet to blue whenever she moved. Appearance, however, was not at the heart of her allure.

“Room service. This is 412. Two stingers, please, one cognac, one vodka.” She smiled at him mischievously. “And one Coca-Cola on the rocks. Neat.”

Effervescence? Vitality? He could not name the quality that radiated from within her. The atmosphere of a room changed with her presence. A dangerous talent to possess, and he suspected she knew it. 

He returned the portrait to the table. “I need a convincing reason to leave. Marsden will not talk about Louise while I am here.”

“True, but Victor wouldn’t give up that easily. Donald should be the one to send you packing.”

“I have been as repellent as I know how to be. He is either thick-skinned or thick-headed.”

She reclined into the corner of the sofa. “If we’ve learned anything about Donald, it’s that he needs the proper motivation. I vote for a nice, old-fashioned tussle. He’s probably always wanted to say, ‘Unhand her, you fiend!’”

“How melodramatic.” It was just the scenario he hoped to avoid. He had touched her too much already. “And very likely to get out of hand. We do not want to disturb the other guests and bring in the management.”

“Don’t worry about that. This suite is practically sound proof.”

“And what reason would you have to know that?” He could think of several reasons, none of them satisfactory. 

He waited for fireworks. Instead her wry smile brought heat to his cheeks. “Just a handy little tidbit I picked up somewhere. Donald looked completely haggard the day I met him and said between the noise from the road and the train station, he couldn’t get a wink of sleep. So I told him there was a quieter suite to be had. He was so grateful he asked me to dinner.”

“I still think it could backfire. Marsden might see you in my arms and take it the wrong way.”

“Well, if you’re going to be squeamish, there’s another way.” Her smile was amused, but the tiniest relaxation of her posture told him she shared his sense of reprieve. 

“Does it involve a drink and my face?”

“Just your face. I’m taking you up on your previous offer.”

When Marsden returned, Illya sat on the sofa, pressing a cool highball glass to an angry, red welt on his cheek.

“Where’s Frannie?” he asked, scanning the room. His voice rang with a new energy.

“In the bathroom. Won’t come out.”

Marsden knocked on the door. “Frannie, it’s me, Donald.”

The lock clicked, the door opened tentatively, and a face peeked through the crack. With a cry of relief, Miss Pemberley flung the door wide and threw herself onto his chest. “Donald, I’m so glad you’re back.”

The gaze that feasted on her was no longer staid and banker-ish. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing now.” She looked at Illya, then hid her face in Marsden’s shoulder. “Victor. He…he…”

Illya shrugged. “Just wanted to kiss the bride, Donny.”

The large hands spanning her waist clenched tightly, crushing the fabric. “Don’t worry, Frannie. I can take care of you. I can take care of everything now.”

“You mean, you…?”

“I mean, it’s all arranged.” He wound his arms around her tightly and buried his face in her upswept curls. “Nothing will come between us.”

Illya felt a burning near his heart. A real burning, singeing his skin. A plume of acrid smoke rose from his shirt pocket. He tried to stand, but his legs would not respond. His hands were like lead weights. Darkness tunneled his vision. His last conscious thought was of a pair of wide blue-violet eyes staring at him triumphantly before the blackness took him.


	5. Chapter 5

Faustina Pemberley rubbed absently at her tingling fingers. Her whole body tingled. To feel triumphant was foolish, unprofessional, and probably premature. Another successful honeypot was unlikely to garner attention or accolades. This time, however, her success was shared by one of UNCLE’s top agents. The report of this Affair would cross Waverly’s desk. He would read that she was making good, even if it was just as a femme fatale. She owed him that. 

‘The Northern Dvina flowing beneath its blanket of ice.’ The phrase resurfaced in her mind, and a torrent of emotion overflowed her carefully erected embankments. Had it really been only hours since she had heard those words? He could not know what they had done to her. Her passions were in full bloom, her thoughts of him running tender and sensual and as red as the blood in her veins. Other words returned, this time from her grandmother. “Beware our hot blood, dushenka. Remember, all our novels end in catastrophe.”

The suite’s outer door opened. With an effort of will, she closed the floodgates and refocused her distracted thoughts.

“Where’s Frannie?”

“In the bathroom. Won’t come out.”

Her chest tightened at the sound of Illya’s voice. Any comfortable assumptions that she had outgrown her youthful folly were shattered. She had known him less than a day, yet she was knee-deep in infatuation. Could he tell? She had practically invited him to make love to her. Thank goodness for that blanket of ice. Or perhaps it had been the gold band. The notion that he might be married sobered her, as did the memory that such considerations had never stopped her before.

A knock rattled the door. “Frannie, it’s me, Donald.” His voice, tremulous with new urgency, grated on her nerves. He might require anti-aggression spray after all. 

She cracked the door open, then gave a relieved cry and threw herself onto the banker’s chest. “Donald, I’m so glad you’re back.”

His hands went to her waist. She knew the steps of this dance by heart, and her partners never realized she was leading. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing now.” She looked at Illya, hungry for the sight of him. He sprawled on the sofa, wearing a sullen moue perfectly suited to his lips. Did he celebrate the end of a successful mission? Did he celebrate alone? She hid her face in Marsden’s shoulder. “Victor. He…he…”

“Just wanted to kiss the bride, Donny.”

If only he had. Her dress shifted as Donald clenched the fabric in his fists. “Don’t worry, Frannie. I can take care of you. I can take care of everything now.”

“You mean, you…?”

“I mean, it’s all arranged.” His arms tightened around her, and his face pressed into her curls. “Nothing will come between us.”

The engagement to Louise was off. Triumph surged once more. She turned her eyes to Illya. If he gave an invitation, she would not refuse. She drummed her freshly-manicured nails on the banker’s lapel. Illya would return to New York with far more interesting marks than a welt on his cheek. 

She blinked. A strange haze blurred Illya’s face. Behind the wire-framed glasses, his blue eyes held shock and anger. Then they rolled back as he collapsed into the sofa’s corner.

“Victor!” She pushed away from Donald’s embrace.

“About time he passed out. He sure can hold his liquor.” He drew her back against his chest.

“It’s more than that.”

She twisted free and ran to the sofa. A trickle of smoke rose from under Illya’s raffish jacket. She pushed the lapel aside. A black triangle was seared into his pocket, a mockery of his UNCLE security badge. The orange plastic singed her fingers as she tore it from his shirt, and its acrid fumes stung her throat. She coughed.

“Be careful,” Donald barked. He snatched the triangle away, his hand wrapped in his handkerchief.

While the banker smothered the device in the ice bucket, she pulled off Illya’s glasses and slapped his cheeks. His head shifted limply with each smack of her hand. but he did not awaken. She yanked a dangling bead from her collar and pushed it between his lips. The boys in Research had bragged that Capsule R would counteract any narco-vapor. They had better be right. “I’ve got to call for help,” she said, as she felt for his communicator. “Someone’s tried to kill Victor.”

“That’s not Victor.”

Her searching hands froze. She knew the heart-stopping sensation of missing a stair step. For a moment she was in free-fall, consumed with a vision of impending disaster. She shook her head to clear it. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a good likeness. It would have to be to fool you. These men from UNCLE are very clever.”

Maybe too clever for their own good. Beneath the crimson shirt, Illya’s chest rose and fell steadily. She reluctantly lifted her hand from the warm, reassuring rhythm. “That doesn’t make sense. UNCLE is going to protect Louise.”

“They lied. They’re the cut-throats and murderers.”

“That’s madness, Donald. Who told you this?”

He ignored the question. “Would Victor be armed?” Before she could prevent it, he flipped Illya’s jacket back, revealing the Special holstered beneath his arm. “I had no other choice.”

She searched Donald’s face, but found no trace of his bluff good humor. “What have you done?”

He held up a small remote. “I only wish it was a gun. Watching him paw at you was bad enough, but for him to kiss you...” His mild eyes hardened. “He should be shot.”

Donald reached for the Special. She sprang between them and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t, Donald. You’re frightening me.” 

He staggered back as she leaned in with her full weight. His arms encircled her. “Don’t be scared, Frannie. I kept you safe, just like you wanted.”

“Where did you get such a thing?”

“You were right about fairy tales. Turns out I have a fairy godmother.”

So much for steady and predictable. She tried to push away, but his arms were like iron bands around her. 

“I’m not crazy,” he said. “What else do you call it when someone drops in from out of the blue and fulfills your wildest dreams?”

“Too good to be true.” Thrush ploys always were. 

He laughed. “That’s what I thought at first, but she’s the real deal. When I think how UNCLE has persecuted that sweet old girl, hounding her out of house and home, it makes my blood boil.”

A profile leapt to mind from the most recent Section briefing; agenda item: adversaries known to be in England.

“Who is this woman?”

“Edith Partridge.” He squinted his eyes in thought. “My grandma’s name was Edith. Maybe that’s why I knew I could trust her.”

Grandmothers rarely had UNCLE dossiers with mentions of the rack and hot pokers. She had to alert Headquarters. Illya needed medical attention and Donald an interrogation. Then the capture of Edith Partridge would become a Section II affair, with Beldon likely to take a hand and much of the glory. Perhaps she would not be entirely off the mission. Harry wanted her, and she could use that as leverage. And maybe, just maybe, Illya would request that she continue.

She looked deeply into Donald’s eyes and cupped his cheek in her hand. “I’m going to ring the police. They must find out what’s happened to the real Victor.”

He kissed her palm. “Mrs. Partridge will take care of that. I told you, she’s a fairy godmother.” 

“Is she a doctor?” Her hand slid around to caress the nape of his neck. “Whatever he’s done, this man needs to be taken to hospital.”

“She can take care of him too. You’ll see.” He glanced to Illya with a look of smug defiance, then pressed his lips to hers.

She had read how Edith Partridge took care of UNCLE agents. She had no desire to experience it firsthand. A change of tactics was in order. Her lip trembled as Donald lifted his face. Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Don’t cry, Frannie, please,” he pleaded.

The tears spilled down her cheeks. “I can’t help it. I’m frightened,” she sobbed. “You promised to take care of me.”

“I will.”

“Then let me bring in the authorities.”

He removed one hand from her waist and felt his pockets. “Darn it. My handkerchief’s in the ice bucket.”

“I’ve one in my handbag.”

“I’ll get it.”

He crossed to the desk. She hated to do it, but he had left her no choice. The pen in her handbag was embedded with a sleep dart. The faster Donald was unconscious, the faster she could get them out of there. 

He returned with her bag. As she opened the clasp, his arm encircled her tightly. With the other, he clamped his handkerchief over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Frannie.” 

Fumes stung her nostrils and throat. She tried to fight him, but already her limbs felt like rubber. The handbag fell to the floor, its contents scattering around their feet. Donald stepped forward to lower her onto the sofa. He stumbled. While he bent to pick up her things, she dragged her hand up to her throat and then to her mouth. She felt Capsule R dissolve under her tongue. 

“Everything will be okay. You’ll see. Mrs. Partridge will make sure of that.” Donald’s voice sounded very far away. She was tumbling down a deep hole. The disc of light at the top got smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. Her last conscious thought was that Illya would be there when she finally reached the bottom…and he would be out of humor.


	6. Chapter 6

The polar lights danced across the starlit sky. Beneath the floor of ice, golden dragon fish swam in the reflected iridescence, darting to and fro to the pulsating music. Beldon had outdone himself this time. He held court from atop a long table, recumbent and bound, while a buxom Scandinavian attendant stretched the tension from him.

The barman listened sympathetically as someone’s grandmother poured out a tale of woe. A hat like a roulette wheel obscured her face, the modish orange plastic embellished by a stuffed partridge. “I had to lock her in that tower,” she said. “It was for her own good. Too hot-blooded.”

A hand caressed Faustina’s back. A thousand fingers, strong but gentle, played upon her spine with the skill of a virtuoso. Neck to tailbone, she tingled in their wake. Then they began to trace her ribs, making the journey around her side with an agonizing leisure.

“Ready to go?” she asked, smiling.

“Aren’t you?”

She put her hand on his thigh. “We have other ways to entertain ourselves.” Her fingers carved trails in the soft, warm velvet. She felt his muscles contract. 

His lips grazed her ear as he growled, “I’ll get your wrap.”

The barman, tall and lean, stood before her. “Warm your drink?” he asked. Before she could decline, he plunged an iron poker into her glass. The wine erupted into flame, filling the air with incense and spices.

She ran her eyes up Etienne’s elegant frame, up, up, up to his face. “You shouldn’t have bothered. We’re calling it a night.” 

She sensed his shrug, though his shoulders did not move. His Gallic smile was one of patient resignation tinged with cynicism. _“Un clou chasse l’autre.”_

A crimson wrap fell heavily about her shoulders. She clutched the ends and found a charred hole marring the silk.

Etienne looked down, his head wreathed in stars. “Asquith,” he said with a nod.

“Dubreton.” 

She turned slowly toward the shorter blond, savoring the anticipation. His features were stern in their repose. Then a slight denting at the corners of his lips tantalized her. He knew what she wanted, the gleaming flash of white teeth, but he would make her wait.

“Shall we?” he asked, the polar lights dancing in his eyes.

She stepped towards him. The ice crackled, and a web of fractures radiated from under her foot. “I can’t.” 

_“Une allumeuse.”_

She turned her face from his accusing words. “Not with you.”

A hand drew her chin upwards. She looked into his hovering face. “Some things are worth waiting for,” he said, as his lips drew near to hers.

With a sound like the crashing of a chandelier, the ice beneath her feet shattered. She plunged through the breach. Her fingers scrabbled the frozen floor but found no purchase along its jagged edge. The wrap surrounded her like a trail of blood in the water, slowly dragging her down. With savage desperation, she fought free of the entanglement. The bath water, freshly-heated, scalded her skin as she climbed back to the surface. She found the ice sealed. Donald’s face, bleary and distorted, peered down at her through the impenetrable barrier. As she drummed against it with her fists, he pocketed the remote control and walked away.

 

Faustina awoke to a knocking at the door. The dreamscape gradually receded. Waves of nausea cascaded over her as Capsule R warred with the narco-vapor in her system. She felt confused, exposed. How long had she been out? Was she still in the suite? Where was Illya?

Someone fumbled with the locks. She dragged open her heavy lids and peered through the slits. Between her false lashes, a brown Chelsea boot was just visible. Illya remained sprawled on the sofa and, judging by the awkward angle of his foot, unconscious. 

His leg was within her reach. She needed to grasp that soft velvet again, to feel the warmth and strength it enveloped. She stretched out towards him; her hand did not respond. It was just as well. She was only remembering a dream. He was not really hers to cling to.

She risked opening her lids further. On the opposite wall, the windows were still dark with night. The ice bucket stood on the writing desk, a striped handkerchief crumpled beside it. What the hell had Donald been thinking?

His back was reflected in the window pane. A gold sash descended from one shoulder to the opposite hip. He pulled the door open and stepped back, giving the awkward half-bow of an American faced with someone of foreign culture and superior social rank.

A breathless voice with a pleasant sing-song quality addressed him. “Mr. Marsden, so nice to see you again.” 

“Mrs. Partridge.” Donald bent to kiss her extended hand. 

“My, my. How well you look in your emblems of office.”

Edith Partridge entered the suite, accompanied by two others. Donald closed the door behind them and set the locks.

A trace of Fleeting Moment wafted through the room. Edith’s file photo had been projected at the last briefing, a grainy image of a conventional matron. The dull knit suit and elaborately coiled hair were the same. Faustina found it hard to reconcile this smiling, innocuous lady with medieval torture. 

Edith ran an admiring gaze over Donald as she fluttered through the introductions. “My niece and nephew, Mr. Marsden. Their father is my elder brother Charles, with whom I’ve been staying in Kent.”

Donald nodded to them. “How do you do.”

“Alexandra you may recall from earlier this evening.” She gestured to the golden-haired girl with the fashionable bob, who gave a cheeky curtsy. “A regretfully unladylike ensemble, but so effective in its purpose.”

The dress of orange plastic had been exchanged for a more modest artificial silk, but she was undoubtedly the girl Illya had danced with at the Jacobite Club. Faustina felt a surge of white hot anger. At its heart, unconsumed, lay the stinging awareness that hers had often been the betrayer’s kiss. 

Edith’s nephew, a twin to Alexandra, set a satchel on the closest chair. With his fair hair curling over his ears, only his clothes distinguished him from his sister. Faustina slanted her gaze, but Illya’s blond mop was just beyond her peripheral vision. Under different circumstances, she would have favored him with a slow grin. The thought of his blue eyes, glacial with annoyance, cooled her anger.

“Now, don’t mind Edward. He and his sister must prepare for Emory’s arrival.” She fingered the lace trim on her blouse. “He really is quite clever. I hope you were able to use his little device successfully.”

“Yes, ma’am. Worked like a charm.” Donald drew a pistol from his coat pocket, the letter K emblazoned on its grip. He presented it to Mrs. Partridge. She accepted it inexpertly and dropped it into the handbag suspended from her elbow. 

Faustina shut her eyes as they came around the front of the sofa.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Kuryakin. How peaceful he looks, and even more unusual. I do hope that is the result of cosmetics and not his dangerous profession.”

“Are you sure you want to do it this way? Forgive me, ma’am, but it seems like a rush job to me.”

“Quite sure, Mr. Marsden. A bird in the hand, as they say. But do not fret. Once Emory is restored to us, you may proceed with your plans for Dr. Latner. After all, his research will be of vital importance to our country.”

“Our top commodity.”

Faustina’s anger mounted once more. Section IV would feel her wrath. Bad intelligence cost lives. Her fury, however, and the fear that lurked behind it, would not help them now. She must don her own blanket of ice for both their sakes.

She sensed Edith draw closer. “And this must be the young lady of whom you spoke. Why does she also sleep?”

“I may have bungled that part. Frances wanted to call the police, and I couldn’t think of another way to stop her.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear boy. The constabulary would have been most unwelcome tonight. Now I suppose you want me to get you out of this fix, to assure this young lady that all is well.” 

“Please, ma’am. Otherwise she’s sure to be having second thoughts about me.”

“Tell me, is she from a good family?”

“Good enough. The trustee sounds like a real piece of work, but she’s got a manor house and a fat inheritance.”

“A place in the country? How splendid. I do hope you will be as good a squire as Emory. What a sad day for Eastsnout when UNCLE took Porlock Hall from us.” She sighed. “Of course, you will be married at her parish church. It seems a shame for our Minister of Finance to be married somewhere other than Partridge Island. I had envisioned a national holiday, with a beautiful ceremony and a grand ball afterwards.”

“You won’t be disappointed. I promised Louise a wedding better than any movie star’s.”

“Then you still plan to marry her?”

“Of course. She’s been dreaming about it since we were kids.” 

“Going to have your cake and eat it too, you naughty boy?” she teased.

Donald coughed. “After all, Louise’ll be living on the island, and my duties will require a lot of travel back and forth. Why should I disappoint one or the other, when I can make them both happy?”

“And yourself happiest? Well, the less said about such arrangements, the better. When it comes to love, men and women see things quite differently. In my day we were advised to overlook these little indiscretions, and it saved us much unnecessary heartache.”

Faustina longed to pace, curse, scream. She could do none of those. Tears pricked her lids. She had missed it. She prided herself on knowing men, on reading them like books. She had leveraged a career on it; two, if one counted hedonism as a career. And this was where her so-called expertise had led. A mission compromised. One of UNCLE’s top agents captured. That would be the report to cross Waverly’s desk.

“Here, Mr. Marsden, this should bring her round. It’s a special sal volatile. I am never without it since that dreadful rain forest.”

Donald waved something under her nose. Fumes burned her nostrils and throat. She coughed. The tears she had been holding back spilled over. 

Continuing to feign unconsciousness was useless. She opened her eyes. Donald bent over her, his expression sheepish and pleading. Edith Partridge watched from over his shoulder. Faustina’s heart sank at the keen intelligence in her sparkling gaze.

“Ah, I thought that might be the case,” Edith trilled.

Donald straightened. “What do you mean?” 

“Mr. Marsden, I think it best that I talk with your fiancée alone. This would be an ideal time to make the business call we discussed.” She drew a slip of paper from her handbag and passed it to him. “Use one of the lobby telephones, then stay until the item has safely arrived.”

“All right.” He blew Faustina a kiss. “It’s okay, Frannie. Mrs. Partridge will explain everything.”

When he had left, Edith gestured to her niece, who locked the doors behind him. “Poor Mr. Marsden. Love is indeed blind. But that is what UNCLE was counting on, was it not?” 

Every moment she could buy was one closer to Illya’s awakening. And one closer to Emory Partridge’s return. Faustina lifted her head. It seemed twice as heavy as usual. “I don’t have an uncle” she said hoarsely, her mouth dry. “Just Victor, a distant sort-of cousin. I’m terribly worried about him.”

Edith shook her head. “Lies do not become a lady. What is your name, dear?”

“Frances.”

“I think not.” She dropped the shawl from around her shoulders. “I believe in certain moral rules. Compliance is rewarded, and disobedience punished. While you consider that, I’m afraid I must look in your handbag.” 

She picked up the purse from the table, her eyes alight with anticipation. “My, it is heavy for its size.” The contents poured out onto the table. “Now, let me see. Compact. Lipstick. I don’t approve of the way girls color their faces nowadays. Natural beauty is so much more attractive to my mind. Atomizer. Pens.” She pulled the cap off the silver one. “What a very sharp tip it has.”

Edith had found the sleep dart. Faustina brought her hands into her lap. Her limbs felt less rubbery, but the effort expended to move them was still too great.

“Won’t you please cooperate?” Edith asked. She perched on the arm of the sofa, Illya’s head against her leg. “Our time together will be so much nicer if you do.”

“I just want to go home.”

Edith sighed. “Mr. Marsden must have administered a very small amount of the gas for you to be so easily roused.” She turned Illya’s head. When she let go, his face rolled back against her skirt. “Mr. Kuryakin, on the other hand, has had a full dose. From what I know of your Mr. Waverly, I imagine the poison in this pen is a non-lethal variety. In combination with the sleep gas, however, who knows what effect it will have.”

She slowly lowered the pen. Faustina could only watch as the finely-pointed tip caressed Illya’s face. Surely Edith would not go through with it. Illya was more valuable alive. If anyone was expendable, it was herself.

Edith tapped the welt on his cheek. “This is not cosmetics. Was Mr. Kuryakin being wicked?”

Faustina did not answer. She observed her adversaries, Edith on the sofa, Alexandra at the desk beside Edward, handing him items from his satchel. Her limbs tingled with renewed strength, but she did not yet trust them. If the chance came, there would only be one.

“Modern girls are so hard. It must be the awful music you listen to.” Edith ran the pen over Illya’s firm jaw and onto his neck. She paused over his artery. The skin dented as she pressed the tip down.

Illya’s lifeblood welled up around the needle. The bile rose in Faustina’s throat. She swallowed and shifted her gaze to his assailant. Edith watched the expanding crimson droplet, a smile on her lips, a hungry glow in her eyes. She had seen such a look before.

“Faustina,” she said. “My name is Faustina Pemberley. Three Es.”

Edith started, as if awakened from a trance. The needle was slowly withdrawn. “How sensible of you, my dear. Now we will get along so well.” She replaced the pen’s cap. “Faustina. An odd-sounding name. Tell me, should I expect Mr. Solo to be joining us?”

“No.”

“What a shame. But thank you for an honest answer. I can always tell when someone is lying.” She rose from the sofa. “Confidentially, Emory finds that trait particularly frustrating.”

“I can imagine.”

Edith’s voice became authoritative. “Edward, we need your assistance. Alexandra, help your brother get Mr. Kuryakin into the bedroom.”

Edward came and hoisted Illya under the arms. Alexandra took his feet. Together they hauled him into the other room. “So helpful. Not at all like their sister Victoria,” Edith said. “She takes after her mother’s side, I’m afraid. Do you think you can stand, dear?”

She could do more than stand. The twins disappeared into the bedroom. Her chance had come. “I’ll try.” She got to her feet and swayed drunkenly, then pressed a hand to her head.

In the blink of an eye, Illya’s Special was in Edith’s grasp. “What a curious hair ornament,” she said. “May I see it?”

Faustina observed the pistol aimed unwaveringly at her heart and lowered her hands. Edith took the silver flower from her palm. When she pushed at the center, a small knife blade sprang from the stem. “How clever. It is reassuring to see that the traditional skills have not been completely abandoned.” 

Edith tested the balance of the tiny blade in her hand. “Once in South America I saw a fellow do a splendid trick. I’ve always wanted to try it. I’m rather an expert at knife throwing, you know.”

“I didn’t. We’ll have to update your dossier.”

She gestured to the table. “Pick up the lipstick, please, and extended it as far as you can. That’s it. Now turn sideways, and hold the base between your teeth.”

With the Special still trained on her, Faustina did as requested. The bedroom was quiet. Alexandra did not shriek. Edward did not crash back through the door. Illya slept on.

“To be honest, I am sadly out of practice,” Edith said. “And my left hand was never quite as accurate. So don’t be too disappointed, dear, if I miss. Now stand perfectly still, please. One, two, three!”


	7. Chapter 7

Faustina wrapped her lips around the end of the tube of Fabergé Glacé and bit down hard. She had never been good at standing still. From the corner of her eye, she watched Edith step back and raise the knife above her shoulder. “One.”

She could blame her nomadic childhood, but she had been unsettled from the cradle. A legacy from her father, whose restlessness had become mythic in its description. ‘The Man Who Never Sleeps.’ All myths have some basis in reality. “A company is like a shark, doll-face. If it stops moving, it dies.” 

The Special remained steady at Edith’s hip. “Two.” 

When she died, she wanted to go down fighting, not posed like an assistant on a Sunday variety show. But her options were few. Stand and be skewered, or resist and be shot. The lady or the tiger.

“Three!”

“Aunt Edith!”

As the blade flew from her fingers, Edith turned toward her niece’s hail. Faustina watched it spin towards her in a silver blur. She leaned back sharply, and the knife passed through the space her head had occupied a moment before. She waited for the retort of Illya’s pistol. None came.

Edith blinked at her niece. “Alexandra, dear, you gave me quite a start.”

“Eddie’s little toy burned his chest.”

Her twin appeared behind her and slouched against the doorframe. “Your fault, you gormless girl. I told you to put it in his jacket, not his shirt.”

“His jacket had no pocket, you nit.”

“That’s enough. If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Edith waved the Special at them absently. “Alexandra, see if Mr. Marsden has a first aid kit. Edward, continue your preparations.”

Edward returned to the desk as Alexandra flounced into the bathroom. Edith looked back to Faustina. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Did I sever the lipstick?” she asked eagerly.

Faustina held up the tube. “A bit wide of the mark.” 

Edith’s face fell in childlike disappointment. “That’s too bad. Perhaps we can try again later. First I think we should tend to Mr. Kuryakin.” She gestured toward the bedroom as if ushering in a guest. Faustina nodded graciously and preceded her through the doorway.

“This plan to trade Illya for your husband,” Faustina said. “What makes you think Thrush won’t capture the lot of us?”

Edith made a disapproving noise. “Eavesdropping is most unladylike.”

Illya lay atop the double bed, his ankles bound. Edith ran her eyes over him. “So physical looking, even in sleep. I must say, it was very naughty of him and Mr. Solo to leave poor Emory behind, particularly after he asked to go with them. Thrush might have captured him there and then.”

Faustina remembered the Affair. When top Enforcement agents landed themselves in the hospital, it was a Roman holiday for Section III. “By the time an extraction team arrived, your husband was already gone.”

“Of course, he was. I arrived in Partridgeville just in time.” Her free hand fluttered over Illya, never quite touching him. “Even so, Thrush has made the last several months most uncomfortable, hounding us the way they have over that silly quadrillenium. Then dear Emory would insist on going to a Regimental Dinner. I warned him against it, but he can be very stubborn. And Thrush got him, just as I said they would. I hope he remembers that next time he’s tempted to ignore my advice.”

Alexandra returned with a small metal box marked First Aid Travelkit. “I found one.”

“Thank you. Could you order tea now, dear?” She turned to Faustina. “Won’t you join us?”

“Thanks, but I prefer coffee.”

“Ah, yes. Americans usually do. I remember making it for your servicemen during the war.” She smiled dreamily. “How handsome they were in their uniforms. Will Mr. Kuryakin take tea, do you think?”

“If his head feels anything like mine, probably coffee. But you might order some jam on the side, just in case.”

“Really? If you say so. Alexandra, call down for tea and coffee, dear, then help your brother finish his work.”

As she left, Edith pulled Illya’s jacket aside and frowned at the scorch in his shirt. “If he were my boy, I wouldn’t let him run about getting into these messes. We cannot attend to him properly with this coat on. I must ask you to take care of it, Faustina. My health is not what it once was since that dreadful rainforest.”

Faustina knelt on the bed beside him. It would not be the first time she had wrestled an unconscious man out of his clothes. She looked down at Illya, old sensations stirring. Hunger and hesitation. Once she touched him, she would likely want to again. And again. Taking a deep breath, she pictured Armand passed out across the coverlet, too stoned to bother undressing. Indignation and contempt were less distracting.

She rolled Illya onto his side and worked one arm from its sleeve. Incense, patchouli, and a trace of something more sinister scented the air. “Donald is quite a success story,” she offered, hoping to keep Edith talking. “‘Small-town Ohioan becomes Minister of Finance.’”

“Yes, isn’t he? Partridge Island would be a mere dream without Mr. Marsden. We’ve never had a better banker.”

“Was Dr. Latner the free toaster with any new account?”

“Toaster? I don’t believe I understand, dear. It certainly was a pleasant surprise when Mr. Marsden suggested he had an idea for securing Emory’s release.” She sighed in satisfaction when Illya’s other arm came free of his jacket. “How very efficient you are. Tell me, were you ever a nurse?” 

“No.” Nor a nursemaid either. When the nights Armand had undressed for pleasure became outnumbered by ones when he did not undress at all, she had moved on. There were always other admiring eyes to stir new romantic dreams. She felt a surge of sympathy for Louise Latner. Her dreams led to confinement in a tinpot dictatorship.

Illya was not a large man, but his deadweight was a struggle to maneuver. She tossed his jacket aside and paused to catch her breath. The red figured silk, so obviously cut from a woman’s dress, had caught her eyes as soon as they entered the boutique. Despite his protestations, he had looked good in it. Too good. Years had passed since she had known such a strong desire to get a man out of his shirt. She was thankful that she had outgrown those antics. And that only a lace curtain had separated the changing room from the sales floor.

Looking down at the blackened triangle, she wanted to tear the shirt from his body once more. The device was gone, the damage done. She worked her fingers between the ruffles until they found the first button. The silk parted, exposing a sliver of lightly-bronzed skin. Curious. He did not seem the type to visit a tanning bed. A beach bum? She knew an inlet on Majorca. Secluded. Private. White sands. Turquoise water. Would he like it there?

Another button, another few inches of tanned skin. His chest was hard and whipcord lean, the soft, fair hair obscuring a network of pale lines. Scars. The evidence of his occupation. Their occupation. She could pick one a night and persuade him to tell her its story. She could be very persuasive. The next night would be his turn. They could grow old before they ran out.

Infatuation was like a rip current pulling her out to deep water. As if grasping a lifeline, she picked up the small medallion he wore at the end of a thin, gold chain. St. Nicholas gazed back at her in finely-wrought detail. An odd piece for a Soviet to wear. No doubt there was a story to that as well. Perhaps a relic of a devout grandmother. ‘O champion Wonderworker and superb servant of Christ...from all dangers do thou deliver us.’ She placed it back onto his chest.

The ruffles continued down past his navel before disappearing beneath his low-slung pants. She pulled the shirttails free and quickly unfastened the final buttons. Then she carefully lifted the silk from his wound. Below his heart, an ugly red patch of skin had swollen and blistered. 

“The poor, dear boy,” Edith said mournfully as she handed over the first aid kit. “But he’ll soon mend.”

Faustina gently applied ointment to the burn, frustrated to feel tears sting her eyes. Illya’s profusion of scars spoke to worse injuries than this one. 

“This morning my tea leaves predicted that I would meet an old acquaintance,” Edith said. “When Mr. Marsden told me a man from UNCLE had contacted him, I knew it must be one of those nice young men from before.” 

Faustina laid a gauze pad over the wound. “So you sent your niece to find out.” 

“I did not think UNCLE would be put off quite so easily, despite Mr. Marsden’s assurances. And there was Mr. Kuryakin, just as I thought. The tea leaves are never wrong.”

“Apparently.” As she smoothed adhesive tape along the edge of the bandage, she felt the rhythm of his breathing quicken. Her heartbeat did the same. The Ice Prince was awakening. “I’ll be sure to let our Intelligence Section know. Then maybe next time we’ll see you coming.”

“Were you truly surprised? I’m so glad. I admit, I did second-guess my decision to leave the remote control for Mr. Marsden. Emory’s capture has shaken my confidence more than I realized.” She raised an admonishing finger. “Let that be a lesson to you, dear. Always trust your instincts. Having Mr. Marsden trigger the gas was the correct choice. So too is using Mr. Kuryakin to secure Emory’s release.” 

Faustina sat back and returned the supplies to their box. Edith patted at the bandage. “Very nicely done. I do hope Mr. Kuryakin will be this cooperative when we get to the Island. How nice it will be to have young people to talk with.” She looked up coyly. “I get very lonely, you know.”

“I thought you were trading him for your husband.”

“Don’t be silly, Faustina. Why would I give up such a valuable commodity?” She flipped Illya’s shirt over the bandage, then clicked her tongue. “I do hate untidiness. Do you think Mr. Marsden would mind if we borrowed one of his shirts?”

“Mr. Marsden can go—“ She censored herself. “…take a long walk off a short pier.”

“Now, now. Show a little respect. See what you can find in the dresser.”

Faustina went to the drawers and located a white shirt, freshly pressed. When she returned to the bed, Edith had her fingers in Illya’s shirt ruffles. “I had a dress of this stuff once. It was very becoming.” She looked at the shirt Faustina held out. “Yes, that will do nicely.”

Faustina blew a curl from her forehead and removed the shirt from its wrappings. The prospect of Edith feasting her eyes on Illya’s bare chest was not a pleasant one. She did not relish the thought that they had anything in common. After unbuttoning his cuffs, she began the laborious process of exchanging silk for cotton. Holster removed. A crimson sleeve off, a white one in its place. Amid Victor’s cloying aromas rose traces of soap and citrus, tantalizing her. 

Donald’s sleeves were too long for Illya, so she began to roll up the cuffs. “If you plan on offering me in exchange for Mr. Partridge, you’ll be disappointed. I doubt they’ve heard of me.”

“I realize that, dear. To my mind, Thrush doesn’t deserve to benefit at all. I’m certain one of Emory’s first official acts will be to refuse any diplomatic association with them.”

“A wise move. Thrush has never been known for diplomacy.” Illya’s hand tightened in her grasp. She looked to Edith, who gave no sign of noticing. “In fact, they’ll probably try to take over your island.” 

“Do you think so? Thank you for warning me.” She twiddled her lace trim. “You know, I have been looking for a personal companion since leaving Porlock Hall. My last proved to be a disappointment.”

Faustina fastened the front buttons of Illya’s replacement shirt. “Good help is hard to find.”

“How true. Do you think you might be interested in such a position?”

Faustina looked at Edith incredulously. “I think there’s only one position we’re likely to be in, and that’s prisoners of the London Satrapy.” 

Edith shook her head. “In my day, young people were not so cynical. If I could get Emory out of a rain forest and the Yukon, I can certainly get him out of a hotel suite.” She pulled a large, abstract pendant from her décolletage. “Does this look familiar perhaps?”

“It does.” The gold cylinder resembled the miniature aqualung that Section VIII has recently begun issuing. 

“Your young men left something like this behind in Partridgeville, and my nephew was able to reproduce it. He has now placed gas receptacles throughout that room. As Mr. Kuryakin has shown us, the effect is both quick and long-lasting. By the time those Thrush persons wake up, we will be far away.”

A knock sounded at the suite door. “Ah, that must be our tea,” Edith said. She held up her hand as Faustina reached the button at the base of Illya’s throat. “That’s far enough, dear. I hope when Emory wakes he isn’t too displeased at having shared a laundry bin with Mr. Kuryakin. He’s—”

The crash of china interrupted her. A scuffle followed. Faustina recognized the thud of bodies colliding and the splinter of overturned furniture. Was it UNCLE? Had they finally uncovered the connection between Donald and Edith Partridge? A flood of relief made her light-headed.

A final crash, and the din ceased. Edward stumbled into the doorway, his clothes disheveled. A trickle of blood ran from his lip. “Room service,” he gasped, “he attacked us.” 

“My word. Have you subdued him?”

Edward nodded. “Lex brained him with the tea pot.”

Faustina’s hopes fell as fast as they had risen. Whom had Alexandra struck? One of their London agents? Solo?

“This was on him,” Edward said. He passed a card to his aunt.

“Whoever this Mr. Dale is, he’s no gentleman.” Edith held up the card for Faustina to see. A small black bird was visible in the corner. “Edward, put this Thrush person in the bath, then tidy up. We don’t want your Uncle arriving to a mess.”

As Edward left, Edith turned to Faustina. “I’m afraid we shall have to do without tea.” She shook her head. “Now, don’t get too attached to Mr. Kuryakin, dear. Confidentially, I think he would make a splendid match for Alexandra. Such a resourceful girl. I will have to bring Emory around, of course. He’s very concerned about breeding.”

Faustina looked down. Illya’s hand was clutched between hers and held fast to her chest. Slowly she lowered it back onto the bed. 

“Chin up, now. There will be many nice young men on Partridge Island. Edward, for instance. A very clever boy.”

Faustina blinked. She stifled a laugh. “Thank you, Mrs. P.”

“It’s my pleasure, dear. In light of our visitor, I think I should oversee the final preparations personally. I’m afraid that means tying you up.” She moved to the door and called, “Alexandra, I need you.”

Captivity with the Partridges or captivity with Thrush. Another set of hopeless options. But if Illya would wake up, they might, just might, have a third option. She forced her eyes to stay on Mrs. Partridge. She would not shift her gaze to the dresser. She would not stare at the wall behind it. She would not build up false hope.

When she entered, Edith handed her niece a bundle of cord from a side table. “Finish securing them, Alexandra, just as I taught you. Faustina, lie down next to Mr. Kuryakin.”

Faustina obeyed. As she lay down, her foot struck the first aid kit. The box flew from the bed and hit the floor, scattering its contents. With Edith and Alexandra distracted, Faustina plucked another bead from her collar and thrust it between Illya’s lips. Two doses of Capsule R was a risk. But if there was to be any chance of escape, Illya needed to wake up immediately.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as the other ladies looked back to her. “More mess. Would you like me to clean it up?”

“No, thank you, dear. I will take care of it.” She nodded to her niece. Alexandra completed her task efficiently. Soon her wrists and ankles were bound with strong cord, just as Illya’s were. 

Edith checked their bonds and smiled. “Very nice work. Faustina should be tied to the bedpost as well, I think.” She patted Illya’s cheek smartly. He did not react. “It will not be necessary for Mr. Kuryakin.”

Faustina’s arms were pulled firmly above her head and fixed to the bed frame. 

“You’re not double-jointed, are you, dear?” Edith asked.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Good. And Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Pity. I don’t think we need worry, however. This is a knot of my own devising, from which I myself could not get out. And I’m an expert escape artist, you know.”

“Mrs. Partridge, at this point, you could tell me you were the Grand Duchess Anastasia, and I would believe you whole-heartedly.”

“Thank you, dear. I have always tried to be a person of the utmost reliability and trust-worthiness.” She tugged once more on the cords and nodded in satisfaction. “I will shut the door behind us. You are far enough from the gas, I think, to avoid any ill effects. And if I am wrong, there is plenty of room in the laundry bin.”

Aunt and niece departed. The door closed. Faustina and Illya were alone.

She twisted towards him as far as her bonds would allow. “Illya,” she hissed urgently. He made no response. She spoke his name again, louder and more frantically, desperate for a reaction. The flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a cheek muscle. Nothing. He lay still and silent, like a marble statue atop a sarcophagus. Beautiful. Unreachable. 

Anger and frustration built up inside her until she wanted to scream. The neighboring suite would not hear, but Edith would. She did not wish to be gagged as well as trussed. She muttered every exotic oath she knew, hoping to alleviate the emotional pressure. The exhaustive catalogue was not enough. Hot tears stung her eyes. Self-centered tears that flowed so readily for her own troubles and so grudgingly for anyone else’s. She was ashamed of them. She writhed and bucked until the whole bed vibrated and the cords bit into her skin. A good, old-fashioned tantrum, just as she had done as a child. She was ashamed of it too. Finally, she lay with her eyes shut, as still and silent as Illya, tears running into her curls.

The mattress lurched. Fingers like hardened steel gripped her throat. She opened her eyes to find Illya’s face, cold and deadly, just inches from hers. He spoke in Russian, his hoarse whisper heightening the menace of his furious words. “Give me one good reason not to kill you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Eyelids too heavy to open. Limbs immovable. Sedated and strapped to the bed, Illya concluded. Dr. Ligouri was not taking any chances with him. No flying jello or midnight escapes this time. 

Nurses chattered, their words only noise. Unseen hands tended to him. A sponge bath? In his narcotized state, he could sense only a gentle rocking, like the sway of a boat. Damn Ligouri! 

The pain in his chest was becoming intolerable. Had he been shot? He could not remember. His thinking was muddled, his memories clouded. Sometimes all that kept a man from the void was a mental lifeline, a thought to which he held fast. He cast out through the sedatives for one, certain it would not be found within the medical ward.

His own breathing was a thing separate from himself, like the lapping of waves against the shore. He waited for the cloying odor of iodoform. Instead it was violets and bergamot. With the scents came emotion, startling in its nature and strength. Words came too, carried from distant days at Cambridge.

_Chlora, come view my soul, and tell  
Whether I have contrived it well._

They had telephoned her. His condition must be critical. Perhaps the bullet was too close to his heart. His hand was clasped. He concentrated his will on squeezing back. She must tell them to operate. He did not care about the risk. Ligouri had to restore him to duty. To Napoleon. To her.

_Now all its several lodgings lie  
Composed into one gallery;_

Medical was his universe, and she was its center. She cradled his hand against her breast, distress telegraphed by the beat of her heart. That he would be its cause was both triumph and tragedy. He would see her happy again. He would restore her smile. 

_And the great arras-hangings, made  
Of various faces, by are laid;_

How had he wooed and won her? Those recollections were hidden still. Even her face was lost in the fog of pharmaceuticals. He could conjure only her smile.

_That, for all furniture, you’ll find  
Only your picture in my mind._

Her many smiles. The mischievous. The flirtatious. The wry curve of her lips. The furious display of teeth. The broad grin of the Cheshire Cat that lingered in his thoughts even after she was gone.

_These pictures and a thousand more  
Of thee my gallery do store_

His mouth felt a touch. A kiss? May she do so again. He could imagine no better awakening than her lips against his own. 

_In all the forms thou canst invent  
Either to please me, or torment._

His heartbeat quickened. Pleasure swelled to happiness. Happiness to euphoria. Warmth and energy suffused his body. Point him towards Thrush Central. He would take them out single-handedly.

His heart beat faster. Too fast. A hand slapped his cheek. Had she spotted the ominous change in the waveform or had the cardioscope sounded its alarm? As it was the nightshift, Ligouri was probably encamped beside his espresso machine. She must drag him over by the ear, if the nurses could not rouse him quickly enough.

The blood pounded in his skull. His name repeated frantically. The bed shook. They were working on him. She had to leave, taking her smiles with her. His heart raced on. The cardioscope would sound like a detonator, beeping with increasing frequency until it reached its solid, fatal tone. When UNCLE closed his file, he hoped they classified it H1. 

The pounding ceased. The bed stilled. The medical ward receded, like a port of departure sinking below the horizon. He would not waste even this minute in remorse. Hero, Class 1. She would be proud. Napoleon would be jealous. Satisfactory thoughts to end with.

 

Hands and feet bound. Vision blurred. Head pounding with the hangover particular to narco-toxins. Illya squinted up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes in resignation. At least he was lying on a soft mattress and not hanging by his wrists. 

A strange sensation niggled at him, one that did not usually accompany a captive awakening. Not the rapid heartbeat nor the heavy breathing, those were probably side effects of the gas. It was the feeling of buoyancy, as if he were being carried along by a pleasant thought. He rode the strange elation back through the darkness of unconsciousness to his last waking memories. The sofa. The gas. Not those. The girl. Warmth coursed though him. _Chyort._ Vague remembrances came into focus. Miss Pemberley, nestled in Marsden’s embrace, her elusory eyes fixed on him in triumph as he succumbed to the vapor.

His happiness exploded, shards piercing his chest like daggers as he plunged from sublime heights back to hard, unforgiving earth. Strothers was correct. Perfidious Thrush double-crosser. All the while, two-timing hi— them. 

He inhaled, and his heart lurched. Violets and bergamot. Floral-scented pheromones bottled exclusively by La Maison d'Angélique. Better spying through chemistry. Rather than relief, the realization brought another stab of betrayal. His warmth became a searing heat. _Suka!_ If he ever got his hands on her…

He was not alone. He slanted his gaze between cracked lids. A figure lay in the shadows beside him. Purring in exultation, no doubt, and anticipating the chance to toy with him further. The thought chilled his white-hot rage into something cold and lethal. He would never be in the thralls of a Thrush _koshka._ He would see her dead first. 

Illya thrust his body up and over, fury supplementing whatever energy he still lacked. The bonds bit into his wrists as his hands encircled her throat. His fingers tightened. He did not recognize his own voice as it rasped, “Give me one good reason not to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gallery by Andrew Marvell  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

Miss Pemberley struggled vainly beneath him. So nonsense and wine and bottled wiles were no match for a bound, half-drugged assailant. Contempt exhilarated him. His fingers tightened. The sputtering croaks that escaped his grasp were the most honest sounds to yet pass her lips. Her smile was extinguished, as was the beguiling sparkle in her eyes. She would know the inexorable retreat of consciousness under the triumphant gaze of an adversary. She would know what he had known one time too many.

Illya thrust back his head to better see her defeat. Her wide eyes held fast to his, as determinedly as he gripped her throat. Twin pools, translucent, bottomless, reflecting the dim light of the room. He resisted their pull with a shake of his head. Damn that gas. Still their gaze did not break. Damn that perfume. He saw fear and desperate entreaty and something else. Something unexpected. He stared into their depths, trying to name it. Ruefulness, almost self-deprecation. It had shone there before, unrecognized. His own words from the pub returned. _How is it that no one has yet strangled you?_

Several things broke into his awareness at the same instant; the line of Miss Pemberley’s arms stretching above her head, the dark trails of makeup extending toward her hairline, the slick wetness beneath his fingertips. He felt as if another drink had been flung into his face, a scalding hot one. His fury subsided. His grip slackened. As lethargy overtook his limbs, he collapsed beside her. 

Miss Pemberley drew a shuddering breath and erupted into a fit of coughing. Fresh tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Illya watched them fall, his head pounding, half convinced he was waking from a dream. Had he actually believed her to be a Thrush agent? Had he truly almost throttled her? His mind recoiled. 

Miss Pemberley shifted her nearest arm, bound with the other to the headboard, and wiped the side of her face. “God, I hate crying at work,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

No furious denunciations? No well-deserved epithets? He stared at her in perplexity. Would she so easily overlook the unpardonable? He doubted it. Apologies remained in order. His tongue felt thick, his throat tight. He cleared it. Her tear-stained face turned toward his. 

Illya had a revelation. “Your eyes are grey.”

Her brows quirked at his evident disenchantment. “Grey as dishwater,” she confirmed. The sparkle rekindled in those eyes, a mocking amusement directed as much at herself as at him. He would have preferred a tongue-lashing. It was the fitting response to his actions. Why could she not do this properly?

Her lips curved into a ghost of her wry smile. “I gave you two Capsule Rs.”

“Two?” he squawked. At her shush, he said more quietly, “Two Capsules R?” His sluggish brain recalled the probable side-effects. Paranoia. Check. Hostility. Larger check. With that amount of stimulant coursing through his system, they were the least of his worries. “You _are_ out to get me.”

“Illya, if I’d been out to get you, you’d be the one tied to the bedpost.”

As his name passed her lips for the first time, his heart skipped. Probably a cardiac episode. Adopting what he hoped were dampening tones, he said, “This is hardly the time for levity…Faustina.” 

He immediately regretted speaking her name. The veil of formality between them was lifted. Without it, he felt awkward and exposed. His voice grew frostier. “One of us could have died.”

“Both of us might, if we don’t get out of here.” 

Despite her flippancy, he saw she was in earnest. He reexamined the moments before the darkness overtook him. The sudden searing pain at his chest. The cloud of toxin fouling the air. He pressed back further. Marsden’s telephone message. The girl in the Club. He frowned. “Thrush got to Donald.”

The door knob rattled. As he shut his eyes and resumed his waking position, Faustina whispered, “Wrong bird.”

His closed lids glowed red as bright light streaked across the room. A singsong voice breathed, “How are you, dear? Resting comfortably?”

Edith Partridge. Such pleasant, refined speech should call to mind chintz-covered armchairs and china teacups, not manacles and iron maidens.

Faustina answered, “Yes, Mrs. P.”

“Splendid. And Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Still asleep on the job.”

The wound on his chest throbbed. He fought to keep his brow from furrowing. If Faustina went five minutes without saying something provocative, he would forswear turtlenecks. 

“You are quite certain he hasn’t stirred?” Edith twittered.

“Quite. Perhaps he has a poor constitution. He might never wake up.”

Five seconds. His wardrobe was safe.

“Don’t be morbid, dear. We shall hold out hope that the young man is more robust than it appears. However, it does prove the effectiveness of the gas. I don’t anticipate any trouble recovering Emory.” The room darkened as the door was pulled closed. “I hope those Thrush men don’t dawdle. I’m a stickler for punctuality, you know.” 

At the click of the latch, Illya opened his eyes. “Mad as a March hare,” he declared, the designation widely applicable.

Faustina chuckled. “She has a certain charm, though, for grade-A loon.”

He once again saw the hot poker closing in and felt the heat on his cheek. He swallowed. “You were too charmed to overpower her, I gather.”

She twisted to face him, grey eyes dark and churning. “Sadistic old ladies with a penchant for sharp objects are a weakness of mine. Wasn’t that in my profile?”

“Your profile was inadequate,” he replied dryly, turning his head. Her seas were beginning to build. Never again would he disparage competence, a serene and predictable quality. A barometer should come standard issue when working with her. “I shall recommend certain addenda when this is over.”

She bared her teeth, white breakers against the shore. “If that includes striking a senior agent, then I’ll be sure to deserve it. That earlier effort wasn’t my best.” 

He rolled onto his shoulder with a grunt. “If our current predicament is an example of your best effort, I do not foresee your following Miss Dancer anytime soon.”

The headboard rattled as she strained forward, her confined hands whirling along to a string of exotic speculations about his antecedents. When she paused for breath, he said, “Clearly you are versed in more languages than were listed. Worthy of noting, perhaps, but not of a promotion.” To continue arguing was madness, but he could not resist. Most everyone was mad in this Affair.

“Clearly you have no idea what Harry considers worthy,” she stormed. “Besides, he’s putty in my hands, remember?” 

He did not want to imagine her hands anywhere near Beldon. “I don’t believe that.”

She searched his face. “Well, as your small mind stretches that far, maybe it can also encompass the idea of four to one. Unless the golden boys of Section II laugh at such odds.”

“Of course, we do. Vainglory is one of the chief requirements. You at least qualify in that regard.”

She returned a crack of mirthless laughter, then spat, “Not so vainglorious that I longed to die at the end of your Special.” 

He blinked, his mind suddenly consumed by 17th century metaphysical poets and their bawdier puns. He dragged his errant thoughts to the present and found he had not been alone on his mental excursion. Her tempest had passed as quickly as it had arisen. A playful smile invited him to return one of his own. He disdained such familiarity. “Very funny,” he acknowledged stiffly, his expression pained.

Her grin broadened, and a chuckle rumbled in her throat like receding thunder. On further consideration, he found no advantage in appearing priggish. His lips curved slightly, and his gaze softened. 

“So, _angelochek moi,_ you have a sense of humor after all.” Something swam in the depths of her eyes, fierce and hungry. Then it flitted away, and all was sun-dappled tranquility as she asked, “How do you feel?”

“Like I narrowly avoided a myocardial infarction.”

He rolled his eyes at her doctorly nod. Contrition had also disappeared over the horizon. 

“Constitution of Rasputin,” she said decidedly.

“No, of a Kuryakin. Lucky for you, we have an amazing aptitude for recovery.”

The disconcerting shadow darted through her eyes once more. “Yes, that would be very lucky for me.”

A tidal wave of carnal thoughts crashed over him. “I’ve never told this to another woman,” he said, rolling to his back, fingers itching to return to her throat, “but I think I may hate you.”

“Flatterer,” she replied, and he sensed her Cheshire Cat grin.

Before he could formulate a suitably quelling response, the telephone rang. His bedmate’s response was immediate and palpable. She tensed, her impudent humor giving way to a wary alertness. His own senses quickened in expectancy. 

“That’s the signal,” she said, when the ringing ceased. “Thrush is here, and they’ve brought Emory Partridge.”


End file.
